


H: ^ :M 



^^ 






N* 



0° ^ 









(V 









% 




















• \ « C V °«. -/ ^f^>'- 

HO , r»* * J;-' 









C?*r> 






'•> 









* at 



<> * 



s c 



■**/\ 



>o 



*4> . 









THE FLYING ACE 



THE FLYING ACE 



BY 

"CONTACT" 

(Capt. Alan Bott, M.C.) 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
Major-General W. S. BRANCKER 

(deputy director-general of military aeronautics) 




GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1917 






Copyright, 1917, by 
Doubleday, Page & Company. 

All rights reserved, including that of translation into 
foreign languages.including the Scandinavian. 



DEC 26 1317 



©CU481120 



^/.^ 



DEDICATED 

TO 

THE FALLEN OF UMPTY SQUADRON, R.F.C. 

JUNE-DECEMBER 1916 



PREFACE 

Of the part played by machines of war in 
this war of machinery the wider public has 
but a vague knowledge. Least of all does it 
study the specialised functions of army air- 
craft. Very many people show mild interest 
in the daily reports of so many German 
aeroplanes destroyed, so many driven down, 
so many of ours missing, and enraged in- 
terest in the reports of bomb raids on British 
towns; but of aerial observation, the main 
raison d'etre of flying at the front, they own 
to nebulous ideas. 

As an extreme case of this haziness over 
matters aeronautic I will quote the lay ques- 
tion, asked often and in all seriousness: "Can 
an aeroplane stand still in the air?" An- 
other surprising point of view is illustrated 
by the home-on-leave experience of a pilot 
belonging to my present squadron. His 
lunch companion — a charming lady — said she 



viii PREFACE 

supposed he lived mostly on cold food while 
in France. 

"Oh no," replied the pilot, "it's much the 
same as yours, only plainer and tougher." 

"Then y^ou do come down for meals," de- 
duced the lady. Only those who have flown 
on active service can fully relish the comic 
savour of a surmise that the Flying Corps 
in France remain in the air all day amid all 
weathers, presumably picnicking, between 
flights, off sandwiches, cold chicken, pork 
pies, and mineral waters. 

These be far-fetched examples, but they 
serve to emphasise a general misconception 
of the conditions under which the flying 
services carry out their work at the big war. 
I hope that this my book, written for the 
most part at odd moments during a few 
months of training in England, will suggest 
to civilian readers a rough impression of such 
conditions. To Flying Officers who honour 
me by comparing the descriptions with their 
own experiences, I offer apology for whatever 
they may regard as "hot air," while sub- 
mitting in excuse that the narratives are 
founded on unexaggerated fact, as any one 



PREFACE ix 

who served with Umpty Squadron through 
the Battle of the Somme can bear witness. 

I have expressed a hope that the chapters 
and letters will suggest a rough impression 
of work done by R.F.C. pilots and observers 
in France. A complete impression they could 
not suggest, any more than the work of a 
Brigade-Major could be regarded as repre- 
sentative of that of the General Staff. The 
Flying-Corps-in-the-Field is an organisation 
great in numbers and varied in functions. 
Many separate duties are allotted to it, ana 
each separate squadron, according to its type 
of machine, confines itself to two or three of 
these tasks. 

The book, then, deals only with the squad- 
ron to which I belonged last year, and it does 
not pretend to be descriptive of the Flying 
Corps as a whole. Ours was a crack squad- 
ron in its day, and, as General Brancker has 
mentioned in his Introduction, it held a 
melancholy record in the number of its losses. 
Umpty's Squadron's casualties during August, 
September, and October of 1916 still con- 
stitute a record for the casualties of any one 
flying squadron during any three months 



x PREFACE 

since the war began. Once eleven of our 
machines were posted as "missing" in the 
space of two days — another circumstance 
which has fortunately never yet been equalled 
in R.F.C. history. It was a squadron that 
possessed excellent pilots, excellent achieve- 
ments, and the herewith testimonial in a 
letter found on a captured German airman, 
with reference to the machine of which we 
then had the Flying Corps monopoly: "The 
most-to-be-feared of British machines is the 

S ." 

Our duties were long reconnaissance, of- 
fensive patrols around German air country, 
occasional escort for bombing craft, and 
occasional photography. I have but touched 
upon other branches of army aeronautics; 
though often, when we passed different types 
of machine, I would compare their job to 
ours and wonder if it were more pleasant. 
Thousands of feet below us, for example, 
were the artillery craft, which darted back- 
ward and forward across the lines as from 
their height of vantage they ranged and 
registered for the guns. On push days these 
same buses were to be seen lower still, well 



PREFACE xi 

within range of machine-gun bullets from the 
ground, as they crawled and nosed over the 
line of advance and kept intelligent contact 
between far-ahead attacking infantry and the 
rear. Above the tangled network of enemy 
defences roved the line photography machines, 
which provided the Staff with accurate sur- 
vey maps of the Boche defences. Parties of 
bombers headed eastward, their lower wings 
laden with eggs for delivery at some factory, 
aerodrome, headquarter, railway junction, or 
ammunition dump. Dotted everywhere, 
singly or in formations of two, three, four, or 
six, were those aristocrats of the air, the 
single-seater righting scouts. These were en- 
vied for their advantages. They were com- 
paratively fast, they could turn, climb, and 
stunt better and quicker than any two-seater, 
and their petrol-tanks held barely enough for 
two hours, so that their shows were soon com- 
pleted. All these varied craft had their sep- 
arate functions, difficulties, and dangers. Two 
things only were shared by all of us — dodging 
Archie and striving to strafe the Air Hun. 

Since those days flying conditions on the 
Western Front have been much changed by 



xii PREFACE 

the whirligig of aeronautical development. 
All things considered, the flying officer is 
now given improved opportunities. Air 
fighting has grown more intense, but the 
machines in use are capable of much better 
performance. The latest word in single- 
seater scouts, which I am now flying, can 
reach 22,000 feet with ease; and it has a 
maximum climb greater by a third, and a 
level speed greater by a sixth, than our best 
scout of last year. The good old one-and-a- 
half strutter (a fine bus of its period), on 
which we used to drone our way around the 
150-mile reconnaissance, has disappeared from 
active service. The nerve-edging job of 
long reconnaissance is now done by more 
modern two-seaters, high-powered, fast, and 
reliable, which can put up a fight on equal 
terms with anything they are likely to meet. 
The much-discussed B.E., after a three-year 
innings, has been replaced for the most part 
by a better-defended and more satisfactory 
artillery bus. The F.E. and de Haviland 
pushers have likewise become obsolete. The 
scouts which we thought invincible last au- 
tumn are badly outclassed by later types. 



PREFACE xiii 

For the rest, the Flying Corps in France 
has grown enormously in size and im- 
portance. The amount of work credited to 
each branch of it has nearly doubled during 
the past year — reconnaissance, artillery ob- 
servation, photography, bombing, contact 
patrol, and, above all, fighting. Air scraps 
have tended more and more to become 
battles between large formations. But most 
significant is the rapid increase in attacks 
by low-flying aeroplanes on ground personnel 
and materiel, a branch which is certain to 
become an important factor in the winning 
of the war. 

And this whirlwind growth will continue. 
The world at large, as distinct from the 
small world of aeronautics, does not realise 
that aircraft will soon become predominant 
as a means of war, any more than it reckons 
with the subsequent era of universal flight, 
when designers, freed from the subordina- 
tion of all factors to war requirements, will 
give birth to machines safe as motor-cars or 
ships, and capable of carrying heavy freights 
for long distances cheaply and quickly. 
Speaking as an average pilot and a non- 



XIV 



PREFACE 



expert enthusiast, I do not believe that even 
our organisers of victory are yet aware of 
the tremendous part which aircraft can be 
made to take in the necessary humbling of 
Germany. 

Without reference to newspaper stories of 
a mushroom crop of ten thousand American 
machines, conforming to the difficult stand- 
ards of active service, it is clear that within 
a year the Allies will have at their disposal 
many thousands of war aeroplanes. A 
proper apportionment of such of them as 
can be spared for offensive purposes could 
secure illimitable results. If for no other 
cause it would shorten the war by its effect 
on civilian nerves. We remember the hys- 
terical outburst of rage occasioned by the 
losses consequent upon a daylight raid on 
London of some fifteen machines, though the 
public had become inured to the million 
military casualties since 1914. What, then, 
would be the effect on German war-weari- 
ness if giant raids on fortified towns by a 
hundred or so allied machines were of weekly 
occurrence? And what would be the effect 
on our own public if giant raids on British 



PREFACE xv 

towns were of weekly occurrence? Let us 
make the most of our aerial chances, and so 
forestall betrayal by war- weariness, civilian 
pacifism, self-centred fools, and strange 
people. 

From an army point of view the probable 
outcome of an extensive aerial offensive 
would be still greater. Well-organised bomb 
raids on German aerodromes during the night 
and early morning have several times kept 
the sky clear of hostile aircraft during the 
day of an important advance. If this be 
achieved with our present limited number of 
bombing machines, much more will be pos- 
sible when we have double or treble the 
supply. Imagine the condition of a par- 
ticular sector of the advanced lines of com- 
munication if it were bombed every day by 
scores of aeroplanes. Scarcely any move- 
ment would be possible until bad weather 
made the attacks non-continuous; and few 
supply depots in the chosen area would 
afterwards remain serviceable. Infantry and 
artillery dependent upon this district of 
approach from the rear would thus be de- 
prived of essential supplies. 



xvi PREFACE 

Apart from extensive bombing, an air 
offensive of at least equal value may happen 
in the form of machine-gun attacks from 
above. To-day nothing seems to panic the 
Boche more than a sudden swoop by a low- 
flying aeroplane, generous of bullets, as 
those of us who have tried this game have 
noticed. No German trench, no emplace- 
ment, no battery position, no line of trans- 
port is safe from the R.F.C. Vickers and 
Lewis guns; and retaliation is difficult be- 
cause of the speed and erratic movement 
of the attacking aeroplane. Little imagina- 
tion is necessary to realise the damage, 
moral and material, which could be inflicted 
on any selected part of the front if it were 
constantly scoured by a few dozen of such 
guerilla raiders. No movement could take 
place during the daytime, and nobody could 
remain in the open for longer than a few 
minutes. 

The seemingly far - fetched speculations 
above are commonplace enough in the judg- 
ment of aeronautical people of far greater 
authority and experience than I can claim. 
But they could only be brought to material- 



PREFACE xvii 

isation by an abnormal supply of modern 
aeroplanes, especially the chaser craft neces- 
sary to keep German machines from inter- 
ference. Given the workshop effort to 
provide this supply, French and British 
pilots can be relied upon to make the most 
of it. I am convinced that war flying will 
be organised as a means to victory; but as 
my opinion is of small expert value I do not 
propose to discuss how it might be done. 
This much, however, I will predict. When, 
in some nine months' time — if the gods 
permit — a sequel to the present book ap- 
pears, dealing with this year's personal ex- 
periences above the scene of battle, the 
aerial factor will be well on the way to the 
position of war predominance to which it is 
destined. 

CONTACT. 

France, 1917. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface vii 

Introduction xxi 

CHAPTER 

I. Flying to France 3 

II. The Day's Work 27 

III. A Summer Joy-Ride 49 

IV. Spying Out the Land 71 

V. There and Back 90 

VI. A Cloud Reconnaissance 117 

VII. Ends and Odds 140 

VIII. The Daily Round 170 

LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 

I. Looking for Trouble 195 

II. "One of Our Machines is Missing" 205 

S III. A Bomb Raid 213 

IV. Spying by Snapshot 220 

V. The Archibald Family 235 

VI. Battles and Bullets 243 

VII. Back in Blighty 252 



INTRODUCTION 

By Major-General W. S. BRANCKER 

(Deputy Director-General of Military Aeronautics) 

Every day adds something to the achieve- 
ments of aviation, brings to light yet an- 
other of its possibilities, or discloses more 
vividly its inexhaustible funds of adventure 
and romance. 

This volume, one of the first books about 
fighting in the air, is written by a fight- 
ing airman. The author depicts the daily 
life of the flying officer in France, simply 
and with perfect truth; indeed he de- 
scribes heroic deeds with such moderation 
and absence of exaggeration that the reader 
will scarcely realise that these stories are 
part of the annals of a squadron which 
for a time held a record in the heaviness 
of its losses. 

The importance of the aerial factor in the 
prosecution of the war grows apace. The 
Royal Flying Corps, from being an unde- 
pendable and weakly assistant to the other 

xxi 



xxii INTRODUCTION 

arms, is now absolutely indispensable, and 
has attained a position of almost predomi- 
nant importance. If the war goes on with- 
out decisive success being obtained by our 
armies on the earth, it seems almost in- 
evitable that we must depend on offensive 
action in the air and from the air to bring 
us victory. 

We in London have had some slight 
personal experience of what a very weak 
and moderately prosecuted aerial offensive 
can accomplish. With the progress of the 
past three years before us, it needs little 
imagination to visualise the possibilities of 
such an offensive, even in one year's time; 
and as each succeeding year adds to the 
power of rival aerial fleets, the thought of 
war will become almost impossible. 

War has been the making of aviation; 
let us hope that aviation will be the de- 
struction of war. 

W. S. BRANCKER. 

August 1, 1917. 



THE FLYING ACE 



THE FLYING ACE 
CHAPTER I 

FLYING TO FRANCE 

All units of the army have known it, the 
serio-comedy of waiting for embarkation 
orders. 

After months of training the twelvetieth 
battalion, battery, or squadron is almost 
ready for a plunge into active service. Then 
comes, from a source which cannot be trailed, 
a mysterious Date. The orderly - room 
whispers: "June the fifteenth"; the senior 
officers' quarters murmur: "France on June 
the fifteenth"; the mess echoes to the tidings 
spread by the subaltern - who - knows : 
"We're for it on June the fifteenth, me lad"; 
through the men's hutments the word is 
spread: "It's good-bye to this blinking hole 
on June the fifteenth"; the Home receives a 
letter and confides to other homes: "Reg- 
inald's lot are going to the war on June the 
fifteenth"; finally, if we are to believe Mr. 

8 



4 THE FLYING ACE 

William le Queux, the Military Intelligence 
Department of the German Empire dockets 
a report: "Das zwolfzigste Battalion (Bat- 
terie oder Escadrille) geht am 15 Juni nach 
Frankreich." 

June opens with an overhaul of officers 
and men. Last leave is distributed, the 
doctor examines everybody by batches, 
backward warriors are worried until they 
become expert, the sergeant-major polishes 
his men on the grindstone of discipline, 
the CO. indents for a draft to complete 
establishment, an inspection is held by an 
awesome general. Except for the mobilis- 
ation stores everything is complete by June 
10. 

But there is still no sign of the wanted 
stores on the Date, and June 16 finds the 
unit still in the same blinking hole, wherever 
that may be. The days drag on, and Date 
the second is placed on a pedestal. 

"Many thanks for an extra fortnight in 
England," says the subaltern - who - knows ; 
"we're not going till June the twenty- 
seventh." 

The adjutant, light duty, is replaced by 



FLYING TO FRANCE 5 

an adjutant, general service. Mobilisation 
stores begin to trickle into the quarter- 
master's reservoir. But on June 27 the 
stores are far from ready, and July 6 is 
miraged as the next Date. This time it 
looks like business. The war equipment is 
completed, except for the identity discs. 

On July 4 a large detachment departs, 
after twelve hours' notice, to replace casual- 
ties in France. Those remaining in the 
now incomplete unit grow wearily sarcastic. 
More last leave is granted. The camp is 
given over to rumour. An orderly, deliver- 
ing a message to the CO. (formerly stationed 
in India) at the latter's quarters, notes a 
light cotton tunic and two sun-helmets. Sun- 
helmets? Ah, somewhere East, of course. 
The men tell each other forthwith that their 
destination has been changed to Mesopo- 
tamia. 

A band of strangers report in place of the 
draft that went to France, and in them the 
N.C.O.'s plant esprit de corps and the fear of 
God. The missing identity discs arrive, and 
a fourth Date is fixed — July 21. And the 
dwellers in the blinking hole, having been 



6 THE FLYING ACE 

wolfed several times, are sceptical, and treat 
the latest report as a bad joke. 

"My dear man," remarks the subaltern- 
who-knows, "it's only some more hot air. I 
never believed in the other dates, and I don't 
believe in this. If there's one day of the 
three hundred and sixty-five when we shan't 
go, it's July the twenty-first." 

And at dawn on July 21 the battalion, 
battery, or squadron moves unobtrusively to 
a port of embarkation for France. 

Whereas in most branches of the army 
the foundation of this scaffolding of post- 
ponement is indistinct except to the second- 
sighted Staff, in the case of the Flying Corps 
it is definitely based on that uncertain quan- 
tity, the supply of aeroplanes. The organi- 
sation of personnel is not a difficult task, for 
all are highly trained beforehand. The pilots 
have passed their tests and been decorated 
with wings, and the mechanics have already 
learned their separate trades as riggers, fitters, 
carpenters, sailmakers, and the like. The 
only training necessary for the pilot is to fly 
as often as possible on the type of bus he 
will use in France, and to benefit by the 



FLYING TO FRANCE 7 

experience of the flight-cornmanders, who as 
a rule have spent a hundred or two hours 
over Archie and the enemy lines. As re- 
gards the mechanics, the quality of their 
skilled work is tempered by the technical 
sergeant-major, who knows most things about 
an aeroplane, and the quality of their be- 
haviour by the disciplinary sergeant-major, 
usually an ex-regular with a lively talent for 
blasting. 

The machines comprise a less straight- 
forward problem. The new service squadron 
is probably formed to fly a recently adopted 
type of aeroplane, of which the early pro- 
duction in quantities is hounded by difficulty. 
The engine and its parts, the various sec- 
tions of the machine itself, the guns, the 
synchronising gear, all these are made in 
separate factories, after standardisation, and 
must then be co-ordinated before the craft 
is ready for its test. If the output of any 
one part fall below what was expected, the 
whole is kept waiting; and invariably the 
quantity or quality of output is at first 
below expectation in some particular. Add- 
ing to the delays of supply others due to 



8 THE FLYING ACE 

the most urgent claims of squadrons at the 
front for machines to replace those lost or 
damaged, it can easily be seen that a new 
squadron will have a succession of Dates. 

Even when the machines are ready, and 
the transport leaves with stores, ground- 
officers, and mechanics, the period of post- 
ponement is not ended. All being well, the 
pilots will fly their craft to France on the 
day after their kit departs with the trans- 
port. But the day after produces impossible 
weather, as do the five or six days that fol- 
low. One takes advantage of each of these 
set-backs to pay a further farewell visit to 
one's dearest or nearest, according to where 
the squadron is stationed, until at the last 
the dearest or nearest says: "Good-bye. I 
do hope you'll have a safe trip to France 
to-morrow morning. You'll come and see 
me again to-morrow evening, won't you?" 

At last a fine morning breaks the spell of 
dud weather, and the pilots fly away; but 
lucky indeed is the squadron that reaches 
France without delivering over part of its 
possessions to that aerial highwayman the 
forced landing. 



FLYING TO FRANCE 9 

It was at an aerodrome forty minutes 
distant from London that we patiently 
waited for flying orders. Less than the 
average delay was expected, for two flights 
of the squadron were already on the Somme, 
and we of the third flight were to join them 
immediately we received our full comple- 
ment of war machines. These in those days 
were to be the latest word in fighting two- 
seaters of the period. Two practice buses 
had been allotted to us, and on these the 
pilots were set to perform landings, split- 
"air" turns, and stunts likely to be useful 
in a scrap. For the rest, we sorted ourselves 
out, which pilot was to fly with which observ- 
er, and improved the machines' accessories. 

An inspiration suggested to the flight- 
commander, who although an ex - Civil 
Servant was a man of resource, that mir- 
rors of polished steel, as used on the handle- 
bars of motor-cycles, to give warning of 
roadcraft at the rear, might be valuable in 
an aeroplane. Forthwith he screwed one to 
the sloping half-strut of his top centre sec- 
tion. The trial was a great success, and we 
bought six such mirrors, an investment which 



10 THE FLYING ACE 

was to pay big dividends in many an air flight. 
Next the flight-commander made up his 
mind to bridge the chasm of difficult com- 
munication between pilot and observer. For- 
merly, in two-seaters with the pilot's seat in 
front, a message could only be delivered on 
a slip of paper or by shutting off the engine, 
so that one's voice could be heard; the loss of 
time in each case being ill afforded when 
Huns were near. An experiment with a 
wide speaking-tube, similar to those through 
which a waiter in a Soho restaurant demands 
cotelettes milaneses from an underground 
kitchen, had proved that the engine's roar 
was too loud for distinct transmission by 
this means. We made a mouthpiece and a 
sound-box earpiece, and tried them on tubes 
of every make and thickness; but whenever 
the engine was at work the words sounded 
indistinct as words sung in English Opera. 
One day a speedometer behaved badly, and 
a mechanic was connecting a new length of 
the rubber pitot-tubing along which the air 
is sucked from a wingtip to operate the 
instrument. Struck with an idea, the pilot 
fitted mouthpiece and earpiece to a stray 



FLYING TO FRANCE 11 

piece of the tubing, and took to the air with 
his observer. The pair conversed easily and 
pleasantly all the way to 10,000 feet. The 
problem was solved, and ever afterwards 
pilot and observer were able to warn and 
curse each other in mid-air without waste of 
time. The high - powered two - seaters of 
to-day are supplied with excellent speaking- 
tubes before they leave the factories; but 
we, who were the first to use a successful 
device of this kind on active service, owed 
its introduction to a chance idea. 

One by one our six war machines arrived 
and were allotted to their respective pilots. 
Each man treated his bus as if it were an 
only child. If another pilot were detailed 
to fly it the owner would watch the per- 
formance jealously, and lurid indeed was the 
subsequent talk if an outsider choked the 
carburettor, taxied the bus on the switch, or 
otherwise did something likely to reduce the 
efficiency of engine or aeroplane. On the 
whole, however, the period of waiting was 
dull, so that we welcomed comic relief pro- 
vided by the affair of the Jabberwocks. 

The first three machines delivered from 



12 THE FLYING ACE 

the Rafborough depot disappointed us in 
one particular. The movable mounting for 
the observer's gun in the rear cockpit was a 
weird contraption like a giant catapult. It 
occupied a great deal of room, was stiff- 
moving, reduced the speed by about five 
miles an hour owing to head resistance, 
refused to be slewed round sideways for 
sighting at an angle, and constantly collided 
with the observer's head. We called it the 
Christmas Tree, the Heath Robinson, the 
Jabberwock, the Ruddy Limit, and names 
unprintable. The next three buses were 
fitted with Scarff mountings, which were as 
satisfactory as the Jabberwocks were un- 
satisfactory. 

Then, late in the evening, one of the new 
craft was crashed beyond repair. At early 
dawn a pilot and his observer left their beds, 
walked through the rain to the aerodrome, 
and sneaked to the flight shed. They re- 
turned two hours later, hungry, dirty, and 
flushed with suppressed joy. After break- 
fast we found that the crashed bus had lost 
a Scarff mounting, and the bus manned by 
the early risers had found one. The gar- 



FLYING TO FRANCE 13 

goyle shape of a discarded Jabberwock 
sprawled on the floor. 

At lunch-time another pilot disappeared 
with his observer and an air of determina- 
tion. When the shed was opened for the 
afternoon's work the Jabberwock had been 
replaced on the machine of the early risers, 
and the commandeered Scarff was affixed 
neatly to the machine of the quick-lunchers. 
While the two couples slanged each other a 
third pilot and observer sought out the flight- 
com'mander, and explained why they were 
entitled to the disputed mounting. The 
pilot, the observer pointed out, was the 
senior pilot of the three; the observer, the 
pilot pointed out, was the senior observer. 
Was it not right, therefore, that they should 
be given preferential treatment? The flight- 
commander agreed, and by the time the 
early-risers and quick-lunchers had settled 
their quarrel by the spin of a coin, the Scarff 
had found a fourth and permanent home. 

The two remaining Jabberwocks became 
an obsession with their unwilling owners, 
who hinted darkly at mutiny when told that 
no more Scarffs could be obtained, the Naval 



14 THE FLYING ACE 

Air Service having contracted for all the 
new ones in existence. But chance, in the 
form of a Big Bug's visit of inspection, 
opened the way for a last effort. In the 
machine examined by the Big Bug, an ex- 
hausted observer was making frantic efforts 
to swivel an archaic framework from back 
to front. The Big Bug looked puzzled, but 
passed on without comment. As he ap- 
proached the next machine a second ob- 
server tried desperately to move a similar 
monstrosity round its hinges, while the pilot, 
stop-watch in hand, looked on with evident 
sorrow. The Big Bug now decided to in- 
vestigate, and he demanded the reason for 
the stop-watch and the hard labour. 

"We've just timed this mounting, sir, to 
see how quickly it could be moved for firing 
at a Hun. I find it travels at the rate of 
6.5 inches a minute." 

"Disgraceful," said the Big Bug. "We'll 
get them replaced by the new type." And 
get them replaced he did, the R.N.A.S. con- 
tract notwithstanding. The four conspira- 
tors have since believed themselves to be 
heaven-born strategists. 



FLYING TO FRANCE 15 

Followed the average number of delays 
due to crashed aeroplanes and late stores. 
At length, however, the transport moved 
away with our equipment, and we received 
orders to proceed by air a day later. But 
next day brought a steady drizzle, which 
continued for some forty-eight hours, so that 
instead of proceeding by air the kitless offi- 
cers bought clean collars. Then came two 
days of low, clinging mist, and the purchase 
of shirts. A fine morning on the fifth day 
forestalled the necessity of new pyjamas. 

At ten of the clock we were in our ma- 
chines, saying good-bye to a band of lucky 
pilots who stayed at home to strafe the 
Zeppelin and be petted in the picture press 
and the Piccadilly grillroom. "Contaxer!" 
called a mechanic, facing the flight-command- 
er's propeller. " Contact ! " replied the flight- 
commander; his engine roared, around flew 
the propeller, the chocks were pulled clear, 
and away and up raced the machine. The 
rest followed and took up their appointed 
places behind the leader, at a height chosen 
for the rendezvous. 

We headed in a south-easterly direction, 



16 THE FLYING ACE 

passing on our left the ragged fringe of 
London. At this point the formation was 
not so good as it might have been, prob- 
ably because we were taking leave of the 
Thames and other landmarks. But four of 
the twelve who comprised the party have 
since seen them, and of these four one was 
to return by way of a German hospital, a 
prison camp, a jump from the footboard of 
a train, a series of lone night-walks that 
extended over two months, and an escape 
across the frontier of Neutralia, while two fel- 
low-fugitives were shot dead by Boche sentries. 
Above the junction of Redhill the leader 
veered to the left and steered by railway to 
the coast. Each pilot paid close attention 
to his place in the group, for this was to be 
a test of whether our formation flying was 
up to the standard necessary for work over 
enemy country. To keep exact formation is 
far from easy for the novice who has to deal 
with the vagaries of a rotary engine in a 
machine sensitive on the controls. The en- 
gine develops a sudden increase of revolu- 
tions, and the pilot finds himself overhauling 
the craft in front; he throttles back and finds 



FLYING TO FRANCE 17 

himself being overhauled by the craft be- 
hind; a slight deviation from the course and 
the craft all around seem to be swinging 
sideways or upwards. Not till a pilot can 
fly his bus unconsciously does he keep place 
without repeated reference to the throttle 
and instrument-board. 

Beyond Redhill we met an unwieldy 
cloudbank and were forced to lose height. 
The clouds became denser and lower, and 
the formation continued to descend, so that 
when the coast came into view we were 
below 3000 feet. 

A more serious complication happened 
near Dovstone, the port which was to be 
our cross-Channel springboard. There we 
ran into a mist, thick as a London fog. 
It covered the Channel like a blanket, and 
completely enveloped Dovstone and district. 
To cross under these conditions would have 
been absurd, for the opaque vapour isolated 
us from the ground and cut the chain of 
vision which had bound together the six 
machines. We dropped through the pall of 
mist and trusted to Providence to save us 
from collision. 



18 THE FLYING ACE 

Four fortunate buses emerged directly 
above Dovstone aerodrome, where they 
landqd. The other two, in one of which I 
was a passenger, came out a hundred feet 
over the cliffs. We turned inland, and soon 
found ourselves travelling over a wilderness 
of roofs and chimneys. A church-tower 
loomed ahead, so we climbed back into the 
mist. Next we all but crashed into the 
hill south of Dovstone. We banked steeply 
and swerved to the right, just as the slope 
seemed rushing towards us through the haze. 

Once more we descended into the clear 
air. Down below was a large field, and in 
the middle of it was an aeroplane. Sup- 
posing this to be the aerodrome, we landed, 
only to find ourselves in an uneven meadow, 
containing, besides the aeroplane already 
mentioned, one cow, one pond, and some 
Brass Hats.* As the second bus was taxi- 
ing over the grass the pilot jerked it round 
sharply to avoid the pond. His under- 
carriage gave, the propeller hit the earth 
and smashed itself, and the machine heeled 



♦Officers from Headquarters. 



FLYING TO FRANCE 19 

over and pulled up dead, with one wing 
leaning on the ground. 

Marmaduke, our war baby, was the pilot 
of the maimed machine. He is distinctly 
young, but he can on occasion declaim im- 
passioned language in a manner that would 
be creditable to the most liver-ridden major 
in the Indian Army. The Brass Hats 
seemed mildly surprised when, after in- 
specting the damage, Marmaduke danced 
around the unfortunate bus and cursed sys- 
tematically persons and things so diverse as 
the thingumy fool whose machine had misled 
us into landing, the thingumy pond, the 
thingumy weather expert who ought to have 
warned us of the thingumy Channel mist, 
the Kaiser, his aunt, and his contemptible 
self. 

He was no what-you-may-call-it good as a 
pilot, shouted Marmaduke to the ruminative 
cow, and he intended to leave the blank 
R.F.C. for the Blanky Army Service Corps 
or the blankety Grave-diggers Corps. As a 
last resort, he would get a job as a double- 
blank Cabinet Minister, being no blank-blank 
good for anything else. 



20 THE FLYING ACE 

The Brass Hats gazed and gazed and 
gazed. A heavy silence followed Marma- 
duke's outburst, a silence pregnant with 
possibilities of Staff displeasure, of sum- 
mary arrest, of — laughter. Laughter won. 
The Brass Hats belonged to the staff of 
an Anzadian division in the neighbourhood, 
and one of them, a young-looking major 
with pink riding breeches and a prairie ac- 
cent, said — 

"Gentlemen, some beautiful birds, some 
beautiful swear, and, by Abraham's trousers, 
some beautiful angel boy." 

Marmaduke wiped the foam from his 
mouth and apologised. 

"Not at all," said the Brass Hat from 
one of our great Dominions of Empire, "I 
do it every day myself, before breakfast 
generally." 

Meanwhile the news of our arrival had 
rippled the calm surface of the daily round 
at Dovstone. Obviously, said the good peo- 
ple to each other, the presence of three 
aeroplanes in a lonely field, with a guard 
of Anzadians around the said field, must 
have some hidden meaning. Perhaps there 



FLYING TO FRANCE 21 

had been a German air raid under cover of 
the mist. Perhaps a German machine had 
been brought down. Within half an hour of 
our erratic landing a dozen people in Dov- 
stone swore to having seen a German aero- 
plane touch earth in our field. The pilot 
had been made prisoner by Anzadians, added 
the dozen eye-witnesses. 

Such an event clearly called for investi- 
gation by Dovstone's detective intellects. 
We were honoured by a visit from two 
special constables, looking rather like the 
Bing Boys. Their collective eagle eye 
grasped the situation in less than a second. 
I happened to be standing in the centre of 
the group, still clad in flying kit. The Bing 
Boys decided that I was their prey, and one 
of them advanced, flourishing a note-book. 

"Excuse me, sir," said he to a Brass Hat, 
"I represent the civil authority. Will you 
please tell me if this" — pointing to me — "is 
the captive baby-killer?" 

"Now give us the chorus, old son," said 
Marmaduke. Explanations followed, and the 
Bing Boys retired, rather crestfallen. 

It is embarrassing enough to be mistaken 



22 THE FLYING ACE 

for a German airman. It is more embar- 
rassing to be mistaken for an airman who 
shot down a German airman when there was 
no German airman to shoot down. Such 
was the fate of the four of us — two pilots 
and two observers — when we left our field to 
the cow and the conference of Brass Hats, 
and drove to the Grand Hotel. The taxi- 
driver, who, from his enthusiastic civility, 
had clearly never driven a cab in London, 
would not be convinced. 

"No, sir," he said, when we arrived at 
the hotel, "I'm proud to have driven you, 
and I don't want your money. No, sir, I 
know you avi-yaters are modest and aren't 
allowed to say what you've done. Good day, 
gentlemen, and good luck, gentlemen." 

It was the same in the Grand Hotel. 
Porters and waiters asked what had become 
of "the Hun," and no denial could fully 
convince them. At a tango tea held in the 
hotel that afternoon we were pointed out as 
the intrepid birdmen who had done the deed 
of the day. Flappers and fluff-girls further 
embarrassed us with interested glances, and 
one of them asked for autographs. 



FLYING TO FRANCE 23 

Marinaduke rose to the occasion. He 
smiled, produced a gold-tipped fountain-pen, 
and wrote with a flourish, "John James 
Christopher Benjamin Brown. Greetings 
from Dovstone." 

But Marmaduke the volatile was doomed 
to suffer a loss of dignity. He had neglected 
to bring an emergency cap, which an air- 
man on a cross-country flight should never 
forget. Bareheaded he accompanied us to a 
hatter's. Here the R.F.C. caps of the 
"stream-lined" variety had all been •sold, so 
the war baby was obliged to buy a general 
service hat. The only one that fitted him 
was shapeless as a Hausfrau, ponderous as a 
Bishop, unstable as a politician, grotesque as 
a Birthday Honours' List. It was a nice 
quiet hat, we assured Marmaduke — just the 
thing for active service. Did it suit him? 
Very well indeed, we replied — made him look 
like Lord Haldane at the age of sixteen. 
Marmaduke bought it. 

The monstrosity brought us a deal of at- 
tention in the streets, but this Marmaduke 
put down to his fame as a conqueror of 
phantom raiders. He began, however, to 



24 THE FLYING ACE 

suspect that something was wrong when a 
newsboy shouted, "Where jer get that 'at, 
leftenant?" The question was unoriginal and 
obvious; but the newsboy showed imagina- 
tion at his second effort, which was the open- 
ing line of an old music-hall chorus: "Sid- 
ney's 'olidays er in Septembah ! " Marmaduke 
called at another shop and chose the stiffest 
hat he could find. 

By next morning the mist had cleared, and 
we flew across the Channel, under a curtain 
of clouds, leaving Marmaduke to fetch a new 
machine. When you visit the Continent 
after the war, friend the reader, travel by 
the Franco-British service of aerial transport, 
which will come into being with the return 
of peace. You will find it more comfortable 
and less tiring; and if you have a weak 
stomach you will find it less exacting, for 
none but the very nervous are ill in an aero- 
plane, if the pilot behaves himself. Also, 
you will complete the journey in a quarter 
of the time taken by boat. Within fifteen 
minutes of our departure from Dovstone we 
were in French air country. A few ships 
specked the sea-surface, which reflected a 



FLYING TO FRANCE 25 

dull grey from the clouds, but otherwise the 
crossing was monotonous. 

We passed up the coast-line as far as the 
bend at Cape Grisnez, and so to Calais. 
Beyond this town were two sets of canals, 
one leading south and the other east. Fol- 
low the southern group and you will find 
our immediate destination, the aircraft depot 
at Saint Gregoire. Follow the eastern group 
and they will take you to the Boche aircraft 
depot at Lille. Thus were we reminded that 
tango teas and special constables belonged to 
the past. 

The covey landed at Saint Gregoire with- 
out mishap, except for a bent axle and a 
torn tyre. With these replaced, and the 
supplies of petrol and oil replenished, we 
flew south during the afternoon to the river- 
basin of war. Marmaduke arrived five days 
later, in time to take part in our first patrol 
over the lines. On this trip his engine was 
put out of action by a stray fragment from 
Archie. After gliding across the trenches, he 
landed among some dug-outs inhabited by 
sappers, and made use of much the same 
vocabulary as when he crashed at Dovstone. 



26 THE FLYING ACE 

Marmaduke shot down several Hun ma- 
chines during the weeks that followed, but on 
the very day of his posting for a decoration 
a Blighty bullet sent him back to England 
and a mention in the casualty list. When 
last I heard of him he was at Dovstone aero- 
drome, teaching his elders how to fly. I can 
guess what he would do if at the Grand Hotel 
there some chance-introduced collector of au- 
tographs offered her book. He would think 
of the cow and the Brass Hats, smile, pro- 
duce his gold-tipped fountain-pen, and write 
with a flourish, "John James Christopher 
Benjamin Brown. Greetings from Dovstone." 



CHAPTER II. 

THE DAY'S WORK. 

For weeks we had talked guardedly of "it" 
and "theru" — of the greatest day of the 
Push and the latest form of warfare. De- 
tails of the twin mysteries had been rightly 
kept secret by the red-hatted Olympians 
who really knew, though we of the fighting 
branches had heard sufficient to stimulate an 
appetite for rumour and exaggeration. Con- 
sequently we possessed our souls in im- 
patience and dabbled in conjecture. 

Small forts moving on the caterpillar sys- 
tem of traction used for heavy guns were to 
crawl across No Man's Land, enfilade the 
enemy front line with quick-firing and ma- 
chine guns, and hurl bombs on such of the 
works and emplacements as they did not 
ram to pieces, — thus a confidential adjutant, 
who seemed to think he had admitted me 
into the inner circle of knowledge tenanted 
only by himself and the G.S.O. people (I., 
II., and III., besides untabbed nondescripts). 

27 



28 THE FLYING ACE 

Veterans gave tips on war in the open coun- 
try, or chatted airily about another tour of 
such places as Le Catelet, Le Cateau, Mons, 
the Maubeuge district, and Namur. The 
cautious listened in silence, and distilled only 
two facts from the dubious mixture of fancy. 
The first was that we were booked for a big 
advance one of these fine days; and the 
second that new armoured cars, caterpillared 
and powerfully armed, would make their 
bow to Brother Boche. 

The balloon of swollen conjecture floated 
over the back of the Front until it was de- 
stroyed by the quick-fire of authentic orders, 
which necessarily revealed much of the plan 
and many of the methods. On the after- 
noon of September 14 all the officers of our 
aerodrome were summoned to an empty shed. 
There we found our own particular General, 
who said more to the point in five minutes 
than the rumourists had said in five weeks. 
There was to be a grand attack next morning. 
The immediate objectives were not distant, 
but their gain would be of enormous value. 
Every atom of energy must be concentrated 
on the task. It was hoped that an element 



THE DAY'S WORK 29 

of surprise would be on our side, helped by a 
new engine of war christened the Tank. The 
nature of this strange animal, male and fe- 
male, was then explained. 

Next eame an exposition of the part al- 
lotted to the Flying Corps. No German 
machines could be allowed near enough to 
the lines for any observation. We must 
shoot all Hun machines at sight and give 
them no rest. Our bombers should make 
life a burden on the enemy lines of com- 
munication. Infantry and transport were to 
be worried, whenever possible, by machine- 
gun fire from above. Machines would be 
detailed for contact work with our infantry. 
Reconnaissance jobs were to be completed at 
all costs, if there seemed the slightest chance 
of bringing back useful information. 

No more bubbles of hot air were blown 
around the mess table. Only the evening 
was between us and the day of days. The 
time before dinner was filled by the testing 
of machines and the writing of those cheer- 
ful, non-committal letters that precede big 
happenings at the front. Our flight had 
visitors to dinner, but the shadow of to- 



30 THE FLYING ACE 

morrow was too insistent for the racket 
customary on a guest night. It was as if 
the electricity had been withdrawn from the 
atmosphere and condensed for use when re- 
quired. The dinner talk was curiously re- 
strained. The usual shop chatter prevailed, 
leavened by snatches of bantering cynicism 
from those infants of the world who thought 
that to be a beau sabreur of the air one 
must juggle verbally with life, death, and 
Archie shells. Even these war babies (three 
of them died very gallantly before we re- 
assembled for breakfast next day) had 
bottled most of their exuberance. Under- 
standing silences were sandwiched between 
yarns. A wag searched for the Pagliacci 
record, and set the gramophone to churn 
out "Vesti la Giubba." The guests stayed 
to listen politely to a few revue melodies, 
and then slipped away. The rest turned in 
immediately, in view of the jobs at early 
dawn. 

"Night, everybody," said one of the flight- 
commanders. "Meet you at Mossy-Face in 
the morning!" 

In the morning some of us saw him spin 



THE DAY'S WORK SI 

earthwards over Mossy-Face Wood, sur- 
rounded by Hun machines. 

Long before the dawn of September 15, I 
awoke to the roar of engines, followed by 
an overhead drone as a party of bombers 
circled round until they were ready to start. 
When this noise had died away, the dull 
boom of an intense bombardment was able 
to make itself heard. I rolled over and went 
to sleep again, for our own show was not 
due to start until three hours later. 

The Flying Corps programme on the great 
day was a marvel of organisation. The jobs 
fitted into one another, and into the general 
tactical scheme of the advance, as exactly as 
the parts of a flawless motor. At no time 
could enemy craft steal toward the lines to 
spy out the land. Every sector was covered 
by defensive patrols which travelled north- 
ward and southward, southward and north- 
ward, eager to pounce on any black-crossed 
stranger. Offensive patrols moved and 
fought over Boche territory until they were 
relieved by other offensive patrols. The ma- 
chines on artillery observation were thus wor- 
ried only by Archie, and the reconnaissance 



32 THE FLYING ACE 

formations were able to do their work with 
little interruption, except when they passed 
well outside the patrol areas. Throughout 
the day those guerillas of the air, the bomb- 
ing craft, went across and dropped eggs on 
anything between general headquarters and a 
railway line. The corps buses kept constant 
communication between attacking battalions 
and the rear. A machine first reported the 
exploit of the immortal Tank that waddled 
down High Street, Flers, spitting bullets and 
inspiring sick fear. And there were many 
free-lance stunts, such as Lewis gun attacks 
on reserve troops or on trains. 

The three squadrons attached to our aero- 
drome had to the day's credit two long 
reconnaissances, three offensive patrols, and 
four bomb raids. Six Hun machines were 
destroyed on these shows, and the bombers 
did magnificent work at vital points. At 2 
a.m. they dropped eggs on the German 
Somme headquarters. An hour later they 
deranged the railway station of a large gar- 
rison town. For the remaining time before 
sunset they were not so busy. They merely 
destroyed an ammunition train, cut two rail- 



THE DAY'S WORK 33 

way lines, damaged an important railhead, 
and sprayed a bivouac ground. 

An orderly called me at 4.15 a.m. for the 
big offensive patrol. The sky was a dark- 
grey curtain decorated by faintly twinkling 
stars. I dressed to the thunderous accom- 
paniment of the guns, warmed myself with 
a cup of hot cocoa, donned flying kit, and 
hurried to the aerodrome. There we gath- 
ered around C, the patrol leader, who gave 
us final instructions about the method of 
attack. We tested our guns and climbed 
into the machines. 

By now the east had turned to a light 
grey with pink smudges from the forefinger 
of sunrise. Punctually at five o'clock the 
order, "Start up!" passed down the long 
line of machines. The flight-commander's 
engine began a loud metallic roar, then 
softened as it was throttled down. The 
pilot waved his hand, the chocks were pulled 
from under the wheels, and the machine 
moved forward. The throttle was again 
opened full out as the bus raced into the 
wind until flying speed had been attained, 
when it skimmed gently from the ground. 



34 THE FLYING ACE 

We followed, and carried out the rendezvous 
at 3000 feet. 

The morning light increased every minute, 
and the grey of the sky was merging into 
blue. The faint, hovering ground-mist was 
not sufficient to screen our landmarks. The 
country below was a shadowy patchwork of 
coloured pieces. The woods, fantastic shapes 
of dark green, stood out strongly from the 
mosaic of brown and green fields. The pat- 
tern was divided and subdivided by the 
straight, poplar-bordered roads peculiar to 
France. 

We passed on to the dirty strip of wilder- 
ness which is the actual front. The battered 
villages and disorderly ruins looked like hie- 
roglyphics traced on wet sand. A sea of 
smoke rolled over the ground for miles. It 
was a by-product of one of the most terrific 
bombardments in the history of trench war- 
fare. Through it hundreds of gun-flashes 
twinkled, like the lights of a Chinese garden. 

Having reached a height of 12,000 feet, we 
crossed the trenches south of Bapaume. As 
the danger that stray bullets might fall on 
friends no longer existed, pilots and observers 



THE DAY'S WORK 35 

fired a few rounds into space to make sure 
their guns were behaving properly. 

Archie began his frightfulness early. He 
concentrated on the leader's machine, but 
the still-dim light spoiled his aim, and many 
of the bursts were dotted between the craft 
behind. I heard the customary ivouff! woujjl 
wouff! followed in one case by the hs-s-s-s-s 
of passing fragments. We swerved and 
dodged to disconcert the gunners. After five 
minutes of hide-and-seek, we shook off this 
group of Archie batteries. 

The flight-commander headed for Mossy- 
Face Wood, scene of many air battles and 
bomb raids. An aerodrome just east of the 
wood was the home of the Fokker star, 
Boelcke. C. led us to it, for it was his great 
ambition to account for Germany's best 
pilot. 

While we approached, I looked down and 
saw eight machines with black Maltese 
crosses on their planes, about three thousand 
feet below. They had clipped wings of a 
peculiar whiteness, and they were ranged one 
above the other, like the rungs of a Venetian 
blind. A cluster of small scouts swooped 



36 THE FLYING ACE 

down from Heaven-knows-what height and 
hovered above us; but C. evidently did not 
see them, for he dived steeply on the Huns 
underneath, accompanied by the two ma- 
chines nearest him. The other group of 
enemies then dived. 

I looked up and saw a narrow biplane, 
apparently a Roland, rushing towards our 
bus. My pilot turned vertically and then 
side-slipped to disconcert the Boche's aim. 
The black-crossed craft swept over at a dis- 
tance of less than a hundred yards. I raised 
my gun-mounting, sighted, and pressed the 
trigger. Three shots rattled off — and my 
Lewis gun ceased fire. 

Intensely annoyed at being cheated out of 
such a splendid target, I applied immediate 
action, pulled back the cocking-handle and 
pressed the trigger again. Nothing hap- 
pened. After one more immediate action 
test, I examined the gun and found that an 
incoming cartridge and an empty case w T ere 
jammed together in the breech. To remedy 
the stoppage, I had to remove spade-grip 
and body cover. As I did this, I heard an 
ominous ta-ta-ta-ta-ta from the returning Ger- 



THE DAY'S WORK 37 

man scout. My pilot cart-wheeled round 
and made for the Hun, his gun spitting con- 
tinuously through the propeller. The two 
machines raced at each other until less than 
fifty yards separated them. Then the Boche 
swayed, turned aside, and put his nose down. 
We dropped after him, with our front 
machine-gun still speaking. The Roland's 
glide merged into a dive, and we imitated 
him. Suddenly a streak of flame came from 
his petrol tank, and the next second he was 
rushing earthwards, with two streamers of 
smoke trailing behind. 

I was unable to see the end of this vertical 
dive, for two more single-seaters were upon 
us. They plugged away while I remedied 
the stoppage, and several bullets ventilated 
the fuselage quite close to my cockpit. When 
my gun was itself again, I changed the drum 
of ammunition, and hastened to fire at the 
nearest Hun. He was evidently unprepared, 
for he turned and moved across our tail. As 
he did so, I raked his bus from stem to stern. 
I looked at him hopefully, for the range was 
very short, and I expected to see him drop 
towards the ground at several miles a min- 



38 THE FLYING ACE 

ute. He sailed on serenely. This is an an- 
noying habit of enemy machines when one 
is sure that, by the rules of the game, they 
ought to be destroyed. The machine in 
question was probably hit, however, for it 
did not return, and I saw it begin a glide as 
though the pilot meant to land. We switched 
our attention to the remaining Hun, but this 
one was not anxious to fight alone. He dived 
a few hundred feet, with tail well up, looking 
for all the world like a trout when it drops 
back into water. Afterwards he flattened 
out and went east. 

During the fight we had become separated 
from the remainder of our party. I searched 
all round the compass, but could find neither 
friend nor foe. We returned to the aero- 
drome where hostile craft were first sighted. 
There was no sign of C.'s machine or of the 
others who dived on the first group of Huns. 
Several German machines were at rest in the 
aerodrome. 

Finding ourselves alone, we passed on to- 
wards the lines. I twisted my neck in every 
direction, for over enemy country only a 
constant look out above, below, and on all 



THE DAY'S WORK 39 

sides can save a machine from a surprise 
attack. After a few minutes, we spotted six 
craft bearing towards us from a great height. 
Through field-glasses I was able to see their 
black crosses, and I fingered my machine- 
gun expectantly. 

The strangers dived in two lots of three. 
I waited until the first three were within 
300 yards' range and opened fire. One of 
them swerved away, but the other two passed 
right under us. Something sang to the right, 
and I found that part of a landing-wire was 
dangling helplessly from its socket. We 
thanked whatever gods there be that it was 
not a flying-wire, and turned to meet the next 
three Huns. We swerved violently, and they 
pulled out of their dive well away from us. 
With nose down and engine full out, we 
raced towards the lines and safety. Three of 
the attackers were unable to keep up with 
us and we left them behind. 

The other three Germans, classed by my 
pilot as Halberstadts, had a great deal more 
speed than ours. They did not attack at 
close quarters immediately, but flew 200 to 
300 yards behind, ready to pounce at their 



40 THE FLYING ACE 

own moment. Two of them got between my 
gun and our tail-plane, so that they were 
safe from my fire. The third was slightly 
above our height, and for his benefit I stood 
up and rattled through a whole ammunition- 
drum. Here let me say I do not think I 
hit him, for he was not in difficulties. He 
dived below us to join his companions, pos- 
sibly because he did not like being under 
fire when they were not. To my surprise 
and joy, he fell slick on one of the other two 
Hun machines. This latter broke into two 
pieces, which fell like stones. The machine 
responsible for my luck side-slipped, spun a 
little, recovered, and went down to land. 
The third made off east. 

In plain print and at a normal time, this 
episode shows little that is comic. But when 
it happened I was in a state of high tension, 
and this, combined with the startling realisa- 
tion that a Hun pilot had saved me and de- 
stroyed his friend, seemed irresistibly comic. 
I cackled with laughter and was annoyed be- 
cause my pilot did not see the joke. 

We reached the lines without further trou- 
ble from anything but Archie. The pink 



THE DAY'S WORK 41 

streaks of daybreak had now disappeared 
beneath the whole body of the sunrise, and 
the sky was of that intense blue which is the 
secret of France. What was left of the 
ground-mist shimmered as it congealed in 
the sunlight. The pall of smoke from the 
guns had doubled in volume. The Ancre 
sparkled brightly. 

We cruised around in a search for others 
of our party, but found none. A defensive 
patrol was operating between Albert and the 
trenches. We joined it for half an hour, at 
the end of which I heard a "Halloa!" from 
the speaking-tube. 

"What's up now?" I asked. 

"Going to have a look at the war," was 
the pilot's reply. 

Before I grasped his meaning he had shut 
off the engine and we were gliding towards 
the trenches. At 1200 feet we switched on, 
flattened out, and looked for movement be- 
low. There was no infantry advance at the 
moment, but below Courcelette what seemed 
to be two ungainly masses of black slime 
were slithering over the ground. I rubbed 
my eyes and looked again. One of them 



42 THE FLYING ACE 

actually crawled among the scrapheaps that 
fringed the ruins of the village. Only then 
did the thought that they might be Tanks 
suggest itself. Afterwards I discovered that 
this was so. 

The machine rocked violently as a pro- 
jectile hurtled by underneath us. The pilot 
remembered the broken landing-wire and 
steered for home. After landing, we com- 
pared notes with others who had returned 
from the expedition. C, we learned, was 
down at last, after seventeen months of 
flying on active service, with only one break 
for any appreciable time. He destroyed one 
more enemy before the Boches got him. In 
the dive he got right ahead of the two ma- 
chines that followed him. As these hurried 
to his assistance, they saw an enemy plane 
turn over, show a white, gleaming belly, and 
drop in zigzags. C.'s bus was then seen to 
heel over into a vertical dive and to plunge 
down, spinning rhythmically on its axis. 
Probably he was shot dead and fell over on 
to the joystick, which put the machine to its 
last dive. The petrol tank of the second 
machine to arrive among the Huns was 



THE DAY'S WORK 43 

plugged by a bullet, and the pilot was forced 
to land. Weeks later, his observer wrote us 
a letter from a prison camp in Hanover. The 
third bus, perforated by scores of bullet- 
holes, got back to tell the tale. 

C. was one of the greatest pilots pro- 
duced by the war. He was utterly fear- 
less, and had more time over the German 
lines to his credit than any one else in the 
Flying Corps. It was part of his fatalistic 
creed that Archie should never be dodged, 
and he would go calmly ahead when the 
A.-A. guns were at their best. Somehow, 
the bursts never found him. He had won 
both the D.S.O. and the M.C. for deeds in 
the air. Only the evening before, when 
asked lightly if he was out for a V.C., he said 
he would rather get Boelcke than the V.C.; 
and in the end Boelcke probably got him, 
for he fell over the famous German pilot's 
aerodrome, and that day the German wire- 
less announced that Boelcke had shot down 
two more machines. Peace to the ashes of a 
fine pilot and a very brave man ! 

Two observers, other than C.'s passenger, 
had been killed during our patrol. One of 



44 THE FLYING ACE 

them was "Uncle," a captain in the North- 
umberland Fusiliers. A bullet entered the 
large artery of his thigh. He bled profusely 
and lost consciousness in the middle of a 
fight with two Huns. When he came to, a 
few minutes later, he grabbed his gun and 
opened fire on an enemy. After about forty 
shots the chatter of the gun ceased, and 
through the speaking-tube a faint voice told 
the pilot to look round. The pilot did so, and 
saw a Maltese-cross biplane falling in flames. 
But Uncle had faded into unconsciousness 
again, and he never came back. It is more 
than possible that if he had put a tourniquet 
round his thigh, instead of continuing the 
fight, he might have lived. 

A great death, you say? One of many 
such. Only the day before I had helped 
to lift the limp body of Paddy from the floor 
of an observer's cockpit. He had been shot 
over the heart. He fainted, recovered his 
senses for ten minutes, and kept two Huns 
at bay until he died, by which time the 
trenches were reached. 

Imagine yourself under fire in an aero- 
plane at 10,000 feet. Imagine that only a 



THE DAY'S WORK 45 

second ago you were in the country of shad- 
ows. Imagine yourself feeling giddy and 
deadly sick from loss of blood. Imagine 
what is left of your consciousness to be 
stabbed insistently by a throbbing pain. 
Now imagine how you would force yourself 
in this condition to grasp a machine-gun in 
your numbed hand, pull back the cocking- 
handle, take careful aim at a fast machine, 
allowing for deflection, and fire until you 
sink into death. Some day I hope to be 
allowed to visit Valhalla for half an hour, 
that I may congratulate Paddy and Uncle. 

We refreshed ourselves with cold baths 
and hot breakfast. In the mess the fights 
were reconstructed. Sudden silences were 
frequent — an unspoken tribute to C. and the 
other casualties. But at lunch-time we were 
cheered by the news that the first and sec- 
ond objectives had been reached, that Mar- 
tinpuich, Courcelette, and Flers had fallen, 
and that the Tanks had behaved well. 

After lunch I rested awhile before the long 
reconnaissance, due to start at three. Six 
machines were detailed for this job; though 
a faulty engine kept one of them on the 



46 THE FLYING ACE 

ground. The observers marked the course 
on their maps, and wrote out lists of railway- 
stations. At 3.30 we set off towards 
Arras. 

Archie hit out as soon as we crossed to 
his side of the front. He was especially 
dangerous that afternoon, as if determined 
to avenge the German defeat of the morn- 
ing. Each bus in turn was encircled by 
black bursts, and each bus in turn lost height, 
swerved, or changed its course to defeat the 
gunner's aim. A piece of H.E. hit our tail- 
plane, and stayed there until I cut it out for 
a souvenir when we had returned. 

The observers were kept busy with note- 
book and pencil, for the train movement was 
far greater than the average, and streaks of 
smoke courted attention on all the railways. 
Rolling stock was correspondingly small, and 
the counting of the trucks in the sidings was 
not difficult. Road and canal transport was 
plentiful. As evidence of the urgency of all 
this traffic, I remarked that no effort at con- 
cealment was made. On ordinary days, a 
German train always shut off steam when 
we approached; and I have often seen trans- 



THE DAY'S WORK 47 

port passing along the road one minute, and 
not passing along the road the next. On 
September 15 the traffic was too urgent for 
time to be lost by hide-and-seek. 

We passed several of our offensive patrols, 
each of whom escorted us while we were on 
their beat. It was curious that no activity 
could be noticed on the enemy aerodromes. 
Until we passed Mossy-Face on the last lap 
of the homeward journey we saw no Hun 
aircraft. Even there the machines with black 
crosses flew very low and did not attempt to 
offer battle. 

Nothing out of the ordinary happened 
until we were about to cross the trenches 
north of Peronne. Archie then scored an 
inner. One of his chunks swept the left 
aileron from the leader's machine, which 
banked vertically, almost rolled over, and 
began to spin. For two thousand feet the 
irregular drop continued, and the observer 
gave up hope. Luckily for him, the pilot 
was not of the same mind, and managed to 
check the spin by juggling with his rudder- 
controls. The bus flew home, left wing well 
down, with the observer leaning far out to 



48 THE FLYING ACE 

the right to restore equilibrium, while the 
icy rush of air boxed his ears. 

We landed, wrote our reports, and took 
them to headquarters. The day's work had 
been done, which was all that mattered to 
any extent, and a very able general told us 
it was "dom good." But many a day passed 
before we grew accustomed to the absence of 
Uncle and Paddy. 

And so to bed, until we were called for 
another early morning show. 



CHAPTER III. 

A SUMMER JOY-RIDE. 

It happened late in the afternoon, one Au- 
gust dog-day. No wind leavened the lan- 
guid air, and hut, hangar, tent, and workshop 
were oppressive with a heavy heat, so that 
we wanted to sleep. To taxi across the grass 
in a chase for flying speed, to soar gently 
from the hot ground, and, by leaning be- 
yond the wind-screen, to let the slip-stream 
of displaced air play on one's face — all this 
was refreshing as a cold plunge after a Turk- 
ish bath. I congratulated myself that I was 
no longer a gunner, strenuous over intermin- 
able corrections, or tiredly alert in a close 
observation post. 

Our party consisted of four machines, each 
complete with pilot, observer, and several 
hundred rounds of ammunition. The job 
was an offensive patrol — that is to say, we 
were to hunt trouble around a given area 
behind the Boche lines. A great deal of the 
credit for our "mastery of the air" — that 

49 



50 THE FLYING ACE 

glib phrase of the question-asking politician 
■ — during the Somme Push of 1916, belongs 
to those who organised and those who led 
these fighting expeditions over enemy coun- 
try. Thanks to them, our aircraft were able 
to carry out reconnaissance, artillery obser- 
vation, and photography with a minimum of 
interruption, while the German planes were 
so hard pressed to defend their place in the 
air that they could seldom guide their own 
guns or collect useful information. To this 
satisfactory result must be added the irri- 
tative effect on enemy morale of the know- 
ledge that whenever the weather was fine 
our machines hummed overhead, ready to 
molest and be molested. 

Offensive patrols are well worth while, but 
for the comfort of those directly concerned 
they are rather too exciting. When friends 
are below during an air duel a pilot is warmly 
conscious that should he or his machine be 
crippled he can break away and land, and 
there's an end of it. But if a pilot be 
wounded in a scrap far away from home, 
before he can land he must fly for many 
miles, under shell fire and probably pursued 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 51 

by enemies. He must conquer the blighting 
faintness which accompanies loss of blood, 
keep clear-headed enough to deal instan- 
taneously with adverse emergency, and make 
an unwilling brain command unwilling hands 
and feet to control a delicate apparatus. 
Worst of all, if his engine be put out of 
action at a spot beyond gliding distance of 
the lines, there is nothing for it but to de- 
scend and tamely surrender. And always he 
is within reach of that vindictive exponent 
of frightfulness, Archibald the Ever-Ready. 

As we climbed to 4000 feet the machines 
above threw glints of sunlight on the screen 
of blue infinity. We ranged ourselves and 
departed. Passing the red roofs and heart- 
shaped citadel of Doulens and a jagged wood 
suggestive of a lion rampant, we followed 
the straight road to Arras. Arrived there, 
the leader turned south, for we were not 
yet high enough. As we moved along the 
brown band of shell-pocked desolation we 
continued to climb. Patches of smoke from 
the guns hovered over the ground at in- 
tervals. A score of lazy-looking kite bal- 
loons hung motionless. 



52 THE FLYING ACE 

By the time we reached Albert our height 
was 12,000 feet, and we steered eastward 
over the ground gained in the June-July 
advance. Beyond the scrap-heap that once 
was Pozieres two enormous mine craters 
showed up, dented into the razed surface, 
one on either side of the Albert-Bapaume 
road. Flying very low a few buses were 
working on trench reconnaissance. The sun- 
shine rebounded from the top of their wings, 
and against the discoloured earth they looked 
like fireflies. A mile or so behind the then 
front lines were the twin villages of Cource- 
lette and Martinpuich, divided only by the 
road. Already they were badly battered, 
though, unlike Pozieres, they still deserved 
the title of village. Le Sars, which sat 
astride the road, nearer Bapaume, had been 
set afire by our guns, and was smoking. 

In those days, before the methodical ad- 
vance of the British artillery had begun to 
worry the stronghold overmuch, Bapaume 
was a hotbed of all the anti-aircraft devilries. 
We therefore swerved toward the south. 
Archie was not to be shaken off so easily, 
and we began a series of erratic deviations 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 53 

as he ringed with black puffs first one ma- 
chine, then another. The shooting was not 
particularly good; for although no clouds in- 
tervened between the guns and their mark, 
a powerful sun dazzled the gunners, who 
must have found difficulty in judging height 
and direction. From Archie's point of view, 
the perfect sky is one screened from the 
sunlight, at 20,000 to 30,000 feet, by a man- 
tle of thin clouds against which aircraft are 
outlined boldly, like stags on a snow-covered 
slope. 

A few minutes in a south-easterly direc- 
tion brought us to the Bois d'Havrincourt, 
a large ungainly wood, the shape of which 
was something between the ace of spades 
and the ace of clubs. This we knew as 
Mossy-Face. The region around it was 
notorious in R.F.C. messes as being the 
chief centre of the Boche Flying Corps 
on the British Front. 

From the south-west corner Archie again 
scattered burst and bark at our group, but 
his inaccuracy made dodging hardly neces- 
sary. A lull followed, and I twisted my 
neck all round the compass, for, in the 



54 THE FLYING ACE 

presence of hostile aeroplanes, Archie seldom 
behaves, except when friendly machines are 
about. Two thousand feet below three 
biplanes were approaching the wood from 
the south. Black crosses showed up plainly 
on their grey-white wings. We dropped 
into a dive toward the strangers. 

Under normal conditions a steep dive 
imparts a feeling of being hemmed in from 
every side. One takes a deep breath in- 
stinctively, and the novice to flying will 
grip the fuselage, as if to avoid being crushed. 
And, indeed, a passenger in a diving aero- 
plane is hemmed in, by the terrific air-pressure 
to which the solid surface is subjected. If 
he attempt to stand up or lean over the 
side, he will be swept back, after a short 
struggle, beneath the shelter of wind-screen 
and fuselage. But when diving on a Hun, 
I have never experienced this troubled sensa- 
tion, probably because it has been swamped 
under the high tension of readiness for the 
task. All the faculties must be concentrated 
on opening the attack, since an air duel is 
often decided in the first few seconds at 
close quarters. What happens during these 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 55 

few seconds may depend on a trifle, such 
as the position of the gun-mounting, an 
untried drum of ammunition, a slight swerve, 
or firing a second too soon or too late. An 
air-man should regard his body as part of 
the machine when there is a prospect of a 
fight, and his brain, which commands the 
machine, must be instinctive with insight 
into what the enemy will attempt. 

As we dived, then, I estimated the angle 
at which we might cross the Boche trio, 
watched for a change of direction on their 
part, slewed round the gun-mounting to the 
most effective setting for what would prob- 
ably be my arc of fire, and fingered the 
movable back-sight. At first the Huns held 
to their course as though quite unconcerned. 
Later, they began to lose height. Their 
downward line of flight became steeper and 
steeper, and so did ours. 

Just as our leading bus arrived within 
range and began to spit bullets through the 
propeller, a signal rocket streaked from the 
first Boche biplane, and the trio dived al- 
most vertically, honking the while on Klaxon 
horns. We were then at about 6000 feet. 



56 THE FLYING ACE 

We were expecting to see the Huns flatten 
out, when — "Wotiff! wouff! wouff! wouff! 
wouff! 9 * said Archie. The German birds 
were not hawks at all; they were merely 
tame decoys used to entice us to a pre- 
arranged spot, at a height well favoured by 
A.-A. gunners. The ugly puffs encircled 
us, and it seemed unlikely that an aero- 
plane could get away without being caught 
in a patch of hurtling high explosive. Yet 
nobody was hit. The only redeeming feature 
of the villain Archibald is that his deeds 
are less terrible than his noise, and even 
this is too flat to be truly frightful. Al- 
though I was uncomfortable as we raced 
away, the chorused wouffs! reminded me of 
an epidemic of coughing I heard in church 
one winter's Sunday, while a fatuous sermon 
was read by a dull-voiced vicar. 

Mingled with the many black bursts were 
a few green ones, probably gas shells, for 
Archie had begun to experiment with the 
gas habit. Very suddenly a line of fiery 
rectangles shot up and curved towards us 
when they had reached three-quarters of 
their maximum height. They rose and fell 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 57 

within thirty yards of our tail. These were 
"onions," the flaming rockets which the 
Boche keeps for any hostile aircraft that 
can be lured to a height between 4000 and 
6000 feet. 

I yelled to V., my pilot, that we should 
have to dodge. We side-slipped and swerved 
to the left. A minute later the stream of 
onions had disappeared, greatly to my re- 
lief, for the prospect of a fire in the air in- 
spires in me a mortal funk. Soon we were 
to pass from the unpleasant possibility to 
the far more unpleasant reality. 

Once outside the unhealthy region, we 
climbed to a less dangerous height. Again 
we became the target for a few dozen H.E. 
shells. We broke away and swooped down- 
ward. Some little distance ahead, and not 
far below, was a group of five Albatross 
two-seaters. V. pointed our machine at 
them, in the wake of the flight-commander's 
bus. 

Next instant the fuselage shivered. I 
looked along the inside of it and found that 
a burning shell fragment was lodged on a 
longeron, half-way between my cockpit and 



58 THE FLYING ACE 

the tail-plane. A little flame zigzagged over 
the fabric, all but died away, but, being 
fanned by the wind as we lost height, re- 
covered and licked its way toward the tail. 
I was too far away to reach the flame with 
my hands, and the fire extinguisher was by 
the pilot's seat. I called for it into the 
speaking-tube. The pilot made no move. 
Once more I shouted. Again no answer. 
V.'s ear-piece had slipped from under his 
cap. A thrill of acute fear passed through 
me as I stood up, forced my arm through 
the rush of wind, and grabbed V.'s shoul- 
der. 

"Fuselage burning! Pass the fire ex- 
tinguisher!" I yelled. 

My words were drowned in the engine's 
roar; and the pilot, intent on getting near 
the Bodies, thought I had asked which one 
we were to attack. 

"Look out for those two Huns on the 
left," he called over his shoulder. 
"Pass the fire extinguisher!" 
"Get ready to shoot, blast you!" 
"Fire extinguisher, you ruddy fool!" 
A backward glance told me that the fire 



1 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 59 

was nearing the tail-plane at the one end 
and my box of ammunition at the other, 
and was too serious for treatment by the 
extinguisher unless I could get it at once. 
Desperately I tried to force myself through 
the bracing-struts and cross-wires behind my 
seat. To my surprise, head and shoulders 
and one arm got to the other side — a curious 
circumstance, as afterwards I tried repeatedly 
to repeat this contortionist trick on the 
ground, but failed every time. There I 
stuck, for it was impossible to wriggle farther. 
However, I could now reach part of the fire, 
and at it I beat with gloved hands. Within 
half a minute most of the fire was crushed 
to death. But a thin streak of flame, out- 
side the radius of my arm, still flickered 
towards the tail. I tore off one of my gaunt- 
lets and swung it furiously on to the burn- 
ing strip. The flame lessened, rose again 
when I raised the glove, but died out alto- 
gether after I had hit it twice more. The 
load of fear left me, and I discovered an 
intense discomfort, wedged in as I was 
between the two crossed bracing-struts. Five 
minutes passed before I was able, with 



60 THE FLYING ACE 

many a heave and gasp, to withdraw back 
to my seat. 

By now we were at close grips with the 
enemy, and our machine and another con- 
verged on a Hun. V. was firing industri- 
ously. As we turned, he glared at me, 
and knowing nothing of the fire, shouted: 
"Why the hell haven't you fired yet?" I 
caught sight of a Boche bus below us, aimed 
at it, and emptied a drum in short bursts. 
It swept away, but not before two of the 
German observer's bullets had plugged our 
petrol tank from underneath. The pressure 
went, and with it the petrol supply. The 
needle on the rev. -counter quivered to the 
left as the revolutions dropped, and the 
engine missed on first one, then two cylin- 
ders. V. turned us round, and, with nose 
down, headed the machine for the trenches. 
Just then the engine ceased work altogether, 
and we began to glide down. 

All this happened so quickly that I had 
scarcely realised our plight. Next I began 
to calculate our chances of reaching the 
lines before we would have to land. Our 
height was 9000 feet, and we were just over 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 61 

nine and a half miles from friendly territory. 
Reckoning the gliding possibilities of our 
type of bus as a mile to a thousand feet, 
the odds seemed unfavourable. On the 
other hand, a useful wind had arisen from 
the east, and V., a very skilful pilot, would 
certainly cover all the distance that could 
be covered. 

I located our exact position and searched 
the map for the nearest spot in the lines. 
The village of Bouchavesnes was a fraction 
south of due west, and I remembered that 
the French had stormed it two days pre- 
viously. From the shape of the line before 
this advance, there was evidently a small 
salient, with Bouchavesnes in the middle of 
the curve. I scribbled this observation on a 
scrap of paper, which I handed to V. with 
the compass direction. V. checked my state- 
ments on the map, nodded over his shoulder, 
and set a course for Bouchavesnes. 

Could we do it? I prayed to the gods 
and trusted to the pilot. Through my mind 
there flitted impossible plans to be tried if 
we landed in Boche territory. After setting 
fire to the machine we would attempt to 



62 THE FLYING ACE 

hide, and then, at night-time, creep along 
a communication trench to the enemy front 
line, jump across it in a gap between the 
sentries, and chance getting by the barbed 
wire and across No Man's Land. Or we 
would steal to the Somme, float down-stream, 
and somehow or other pass the entangle- 
ments placed across the river by the enemy. 
Wouff! wouff! Archie was complicating the 
odds. 

Further broodings were checked by the 
sudden appearance of a German scout. Tak- 
ing advantage of our plight, its pilot dived 
steeply from a point slightly behind us. We 
could not afford to lose any distance by 
dodging, so V. did the only thing possible — 
he kept straight on. I raised my gun, aimed 
at the wicked-looking nose of the attacking 
craft, and met it with a barrage of bullets. 
These must have worried the Boche, for he 
swerved aside when a hundred and fifty 
yards distant, and did not flatten out until 
he was beneath the tail of our machine. 
Afterwards he climbed away from us, turned, 
and dived once more. For a second time we 
escaped, owing either to some lucky shots 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 63 

from my gun or to the lack of judgment by 
the Hun pilot. The scout pulled up and 
passed ahead of us. It rose and manoeuvred 
as if to dive from the front and bar the way. 

Meanwhile, four specks, approaching from 
the west, had grown larger and larger, until 
they were revealed as of the F.E. type — the 
British "pusher" two-seater. The Boche 
saw them, and hesitated as they bore down 
on him. Finding himself in the position of a 
lion attacked by hunters when about to 
pounce on a tethered goat, he decided not to 
destroy, for in so doing he would have laid 
himself open to destruction. When I last 
saw him he was racing north-east. 

There was now no obstacle to the long 
glide. As we went lower, the torn ground 
showed up plainly. From 2000 feet I could 
almost count the shell-holes. Two battery 
I i sitions came into view, and near one of 
them I saw tracks and could distinguish 
movements by a few tiny dots. It became 
evident that, barring accident, we should 
reach the French zone. 

When slightly behind the trenches a con- 
fused chatter from below told us that ma- 



64 THE FLYING ACE 

chine-guns were trained on the machine. By 
way of retaliation, I leaned over and shot at 
what looked like an emplacement. Then 
came the Boche front line, ragged and un- 
kempt. I fired along the open trench. Al- 
though far from fearless as a rule, I was 
not in the least afraid during the eventful 
glide. My state of intense "wind up" while 
the fuselage was burning had apparently ex- 
hausted my stock of nervousness. I seemed 
detached from all idea of danger, and the 
desolated German trench area might have 
been a side-show at a fair. 

We swept by No Man's Land at a height 
of 600 feet, crossed the French first- and 
second-line trenches, and, after passing a 
small ridge, prepared to land on an uneven 
plateau covered by high bracken. To avoid 
landing down wind and down-hill, the pilot 
banked to the right before he flattened out. 
The bus pancaked gently to earth, ran over 
the bracken, and stopped two yards from a 
group of shell-holes. Not a wire was broken. 
The propeller had been scored by the 
bracken, but the landing was responsible for 
no other damage. Taking into consideration 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 65 

the broken ground, the short space at our 
disposal, and the fact that we landed cross- 
wind, V. had exhibited wonderful skill. 

We climbed out, relieved but cantanker- 
ous. V., still ignorant of the fire, wanted 
to know why my gun was silent during our 
first fight; and I wanted to know why he 
hadn't shut off the engine and listened when 
I shouted for the fire extinguisher. Some 
French gunners ran to meet us. The sight 
that met them must have seemed novel, even 
to a poilu of two and a half years' under- 
standing. 

Supposing that the aeroplane had crashed, 
they came to see if we were dead or injured. 
What they found was one almost complete 
aeroplane and two leather-coated figures, who 
cursed each other heartily as they stood side 
by side, and performed a certain natural 
function which is publicly represented in 
Brussels by a famous little statue. 

"Quels types!" said the first Frenchmen 
to arrive. 

An examination of the bus revealed a fair 
crop of bullet holes through the wings and 
elevator. A large gap in one side of the 



66 THE FLYING ACE 

fuselage, over a longeron that was charred 
to powder in parts, bore witness to the fire. 
Petrol was dripping from the spot where the 
tank had been perforated. On taking a tin 
of chocolate from his pocket, V. found it 
ripped and gaping. He searched the pocket 
and discovered a bright bullet at the bottom. 
We traced the adventures of that bullet; it 
had grazed a strut, cut right through the 
petrol union, and expended itself on the 
chocolate tin. 

Soon our attention was attracted to sev- 
eral French machines that were passing 
through a barrage of Archie bursts. The 
bombardment of an aeroplane arouses only 
the sporting instinct of the average soldier. 
His interest, though keen, is directed to- 
wards the quality of the shooting and the 
distance of the shells for their target; his 
attitude when watching a pigeon-shoot would 
be much the same. But the airman has 
experience of what the aeroplane crews must 
be going through, and his thought is all for 
them. He knows that dull, loud cough of 
an Archie shell, the hiss of a flying frag- 
ment, the wicked black puffs that creep to- 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 67 

wards their mark and follow it, no matter 
where the pilot may swerve. Should a 
friendly machine tumble to earth after that 
rare occurrence, a direct hit, all the sensations 
of an uncontrolled nose-dive are suggested to 
his senses. He hears the shriek of the up- 
rushing air, feels the helpless terror. It 
hurts him to know that he is powerless to 
save a friend from certain death. He can- 
not even withdraw his eyes from the falling 
~raft. I was glad we had not viewed the 
disaster while we were in the air, for nothing 
is more unnerving than to see another ma- 
chine crumbled up by a direct hit when 
Archie is firing at yourself. 

"Me," said a French gunner by my side, 
"I prefer the artillery." With which senti- 
ment I have often agreed when dodging 
Archie, though at every other time I prefer 
the Flying Corps work to any other kind of 
fighting. 

V. disappeared to phone the Squadron 
Commander, and I was left with the crippled 
bus and the crowd of Frenchmen. The poilus 
questioned me on subjects ranging from the 
customary length of a British officer's mous- 



68 THE FLYING ACE 

tache to the possible length of the war. Yes, 
we had been hit in a fight with Boche aero- 
planes. Yes, there had also been a slight fire 
on board. Yes, I had great fear at the time. 
Yes, I would accept a cigarette with pleasure. 
No, it was untrue that England contained 
four million civilian embusques of military 
age. No, the report that officers of the 
British Flying Corps received fifty francs a 
day was inaccurate, unfortunately. But no, 
my good-for-nothing opinion was that we 
should not finish the Boche within a year; 
and so on. 

"How is it," said one man in faded uni- 
form, "that the British always manage to 
keep themselves correct and shaven?" 

"La barbel" interrupted another; "the 
Tommies don't keep clean on the Somme. 
Even the lilies of the etat-majeur can't." 
And he began to quote: 

"Si ma fi-fi-fiancee me voyait, 
Elle m' dirait en me dormant cinq sous: 
*Va t' faire raser!' mais moi, j' repondrais 
Que moi j'ai toujours les memes deux joues." 

V. was away for an hour and a half and 
when he did return it was to announce that 



A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 69 

he had been unable to phone because the 
line was blocked under pressure of impor- 
tant operations. Deciding to report in per- 
son, we declined an offer of hospitality from 
the French officers, but gratefully accepted a 
guard for the machine, and the loan of a 
car. 

A young lieutenant accompanied us as far 
as Amiens. There we stopped for supper, 
and were joined by some civilian friends of 
our French companion. The filet de sole an 
vin blanc engendered a feeling of deep con- 
tent. Now that it was over, I felt pleased 
with the day's excitement and the contrast 
it afforded. Three hours beforehand it 
seemed likely that the evening would see us 
prisoners. Yet here we were, supping in a 
comfortable hotel with three charming ladies 
and the widow Clicquot. 

Arrived at the aerodrome, we visited the 
hut inhabited by the Squadron Commander, 
who wore pyjamas and a smile of welcome. 
We were just in time, he said, to rescue our 
names from the list of missing. Our tale 
impressed him so much that, after making 
arrangements for the stranded bus to be 



70 THE FLYING ACE 

brought back by a repair party, he remarked : 
"You can both have a rest to-morrow." 

" Cheeriho, you rotten old night-bird," said 
my tent companion, and mentioned in a hurt 
tone that our flight was booked for the 5 
a.m. reconnaissance. But my last thought 
before sinking into sleep was of the blessed 
words: "You can have a rest to-morrow." 



I 



CHAPTER IV. 

SPYING OUT THE LAND. 

For thirty hours the flight had "stood by" 
for a long reconnaissance. We were dragged 
from bed at 4.30 of dawn, only to return 
gratefully beneath the blankets three-quarters 
of an hour later, when a slight but steady 
rain washed away all chance of an imme- 
diate job. The drizzle continued until after 
sundown, and our only occupations through- 
out the day were to wade from mess to aero- 
drome, aerodrome to mess, and to overhaul 
in detail machines, maps, guns, and con- 
sciences. 

Next morning again we dressed in the 
half-light, and again went back to bed in 
the daylight. This time the show had been 
postponed because of low clouds and a thick 
ground-mist that hung over the reeking earth. 
It was a depressing dawn — clammy, moist, 
and sticky. 

But by early afternoon the mist had con- 
gealed, and the sheet of clouds was torn to 

71 



72 THE FLYING ACE 

rags by a strong south-west wind. The four 
craft detailed for the reconnaissance were 
therefore lined outside their shed, while their 
crews waited for flying orders. I was to be 
in the leading bus, for when C.'s death left 
vacant the command of A Flight, the good 
work of my pilot had brought him a flight- 
commandership, a three-pipped tunic, and a 
sense of responsibility which, to my relief, 
checked his tendency to over-recklessness. 
He now came from the squadron office with 
news of a changed course. 

"To get the wind behind us," he ex- 
plained, "we shall cross well to the south 
of Peronne. Next, we go to Boislens. After 
that we pass by Nimporte, over the Foret 
de Charbon to Siegecourt; then up to Le 
Recul and back by Princebourg, St. Guil- 
laume, and Toutpres. 

"As regards the observers, don't forget to 
use your field-glasses on the rolling stock; 
don't forget the precise direction of trains 
and motor transport; don't forget the rail- 
ways and roads on every side; don't forget 
the canals; and for the Lord's and every- 
body else's sake, don't be surprised by Hun 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 7S 

aircraft. As regards the pilots — keep in 
close formation when possible; don't straggle 
and don't climb above the proper height." 

The pilots ran their engines once more, 
and the observers exchanged information 
about items such as Hun aerodromes and 
the number of railway stations at each large 
town. An air reconnaissance is essentially 
the observer's show; its main object being to 
supply the "I" people at headquarters with 
private bulletins from the back of the Ger- 
man front. The collection of reconnaissance 
reports is work of a highly skilled nature, or 
ought to be. Spying out the land is much 
more than a search of railways, roads, and 
the terrain generally. The experienced ob- 
server must know the German area over 
which he works rather better than he knows 
Salisbury Plain. The approximate position 
of railway junctions and stations, aerodromes, 
factories, and depots should be familiar to 
him, so that he can without difficulty spot 
any new feature. Also he must be some- 
thing of a sleuth, particularly when using 
smoke as a clue. In the early morning a 
thin layer of smoke above a wood may mean 



74 THE FLYING ACE 

a bivouac. If it be but a few miles behind 
the lines, it can evidence heavy artillery. A 
narrow stream of smoke near a railway will 
make an observer scan the line closely for a 
stationary train, as the Boche engine-drivers 
usually try to avoid detection by shutting 
off steam. The Hun has many other dodges 
to avoid publicity. When Allied aircraft ap- 
pear, motor and horse transport remain im- 
mobile at the roadside or under trees. 
Artillery and infantry are packed under 
cover; though, for that matter, the enemy 
very rarely move troops in the daytime, 
preferring the night or early morning, when 
there are no troublesome eyes in the air. 

To foil these attempts at concealment is 
the business of the observers, who gather 
information for Army Headquarters and G. 
H.Q. For observers on corps work the de- 
tective problems are somewhat different. 
This department deals with hidden saps and 
battery positions, and draws and photo- 
graphs conclusions from clues such as a 
muzzle-blast, fresh tracks, or an artificial 
cluster of trees. All reconnaissance observers 
must carry out a simultaneous search of the 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 75 

earth for movement and the sky for foes, 
and in addition keep their guns ready for 
instant use. And should anything happen to 
their machines, and a forced landing seem 
likely, they must sit tight and carry on so 
long as there is the slightest hope of a safe 
return. 

A nos moutons. I made a long list in 
my note-book of the places where some- 
thing useful was likely to be observed, and 
tried my gun by firing a few shots into the 
ground. We hung around, impatient at the 
long delay. 

"Get into your machines," called the 
Squadron Commander at last, when a tele- 
phone message had reported that the weather 
conditions toward the east were no longer 
unfavourable. We took to the air and set 
off. 

V. led his covey beyond Albert and well 
south of the river before he turned to the 
left. Then, with the strong wind behind us, 
we raced north-east and crossed the strip of 
trenches. The pilot of the emergency ma- 
chine, which had come thus far to join the 
party if one of the other four dropped out, 



76 THE FLYING ACE 

waved his hand in farewell and left for home. 

Archie barked at us immediately, but he 
caused small trouble, as most of his atten- 
tion was already claimed by a party of 
French machines half a mile ahead. Any- 
how we should have shaken him off quickly, 
for at this stage of the journey, with a forty- 
mile wind reinforcing our usual air speed 
of about ninety-five miles an hour, our 
ground speed was sufficient to avoid linger- 
ing in any region made unhealthy by A. -A. 
guns. The water-marked ribbon of trenches 
seemed altogether puny and absurd during 
the few seconds when it was within sight. 
The winding Somme was dull and dirty as 
the desolation of its surrounding basin. Some 
four thousand feet above the ground a few 
clouds moved restlessly at the bidding of 
the wind. 

Passing a few small woods, we arrived 
without interruption over the railway junc- 
tion of Boislens. With arms free of the 
machine to avoid unnecessary vibration, the 
observers trained their glasses on the station 
and estimated the amount of rolling stock. 
A close search of the railway arteries only 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 77 

revealed one train. I grabbed pencil and 
note-book and wrote: "Boislens, 3.5 p.m. 6 
R.S., 1 train going S.W." 

Just west of our old friend Mossy-Pace 
were two rows of flagrantly new trenches. 
As this is one of the points where the enemy 
made a stand after their 1917 spring retreat, 
it can be assumed that even as far back as 
last October they were preparing new lines 
of defence, Hindenburg or otherwise. Not 
far west of these defence works were two 
troublesome aerodromes at Bertincourt and 
Velu, both of which places have since been 
captured. 

A hunt for an aerodrome followed. V., 
who knew the neighbourhood well, having 
passed above it some two-score times, was 
quick to spot a group of hitherto unnoted 
sheds north of Boislens, towards Mossy- 
Face. He circled over them to let me plot 
the pin-point position on the map and sketch 
the aerodrome and its surroundings. The 
Hun pilots, with thoughts of a possible bomb- 
raid, began to take their machines into the 
air for safety. 

"Got 'em all?" Thus V., shouting through 



78 THE FLYING ACE 

the rubber speaking-tube, one end of which 
was fixed inside my flying-cap, so that it 
always rested against my ear. 

"Correct. Get on with the good work." 
The good work led us over a region for 
ever associated with British arms. Some 
of the towns brought bitter memories of 
that anxious August three years back. Thus 
Nimporte, which saw a desperate but suc- 
cessful stand on one flank of the contempti- 
ble little army to gain time for the main 
body; Ventregris, scene of a cavalry charge 
that was a glorious tragedy; Labas, where a 
battery of horse-gunners made for itself an 
imperishable name; Siegecourt, where the 
British might have retired into a trap but 
didn't; and Le Recul itself, whence they 
slipped away just in time. 

In the station at Nimporte a train was 
waiting to move off, and two more were on 
their way to the military base of Pluspres. 
Both attempted to hide their heads by shut- 
ting off steam immediately the drone of our 
engines made itself heard; but we had spotted 
them from afar, and already they were noted 
for the information of Brass Hats. 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 79 

The next item of interest was activity at 
a factory outside a little town. Black trails 
of smoke stretched away from the chimneys; 
and surely, as we approached a minute ago, 
a short column of lorries was passing along 
a road towards the factory. Yet when we 
reached the spot there was no sign of road 
transport. Nevertheless, I was certain I had 
seen some motor vehicles, and I entered the 
fact in my note-book. Likewise I took care 
to locate the factory site on my map, in 
case it deserved the honour of a bomb attack 
later. 

Our bus led the way across the huge un- 
wieldy Foret de Charbon, patterned in rec- 
tangular fashion by intersecting roads, and 
we arrived at Siegecourt. This is at once 
a fortress and an industrial town. There are 
several railway stations around it, and these 
added greatly to the observers' collection of 
trains and trucks. The Huns below, with 
unpleasant memories of former visits from 
British aircraft, probably expected to be 
bombed. They threw up at us a large quan- 
tity of high-explosive shells, but the shots 
were all wide and we remained un worried. 



80 THE FLYING ACE 

To judge by the quality of the A.-A. shoot- 
ing each time I called there, it seemed likely 
that half -trained A.-A. gunners were allowed 
to cut their active service teeth on us at 
Siegecourt. 

Having squeezed Siegecourt of all move- 
ment, we headed for Le Recul. Here the 
intricate patchwork of railway kept the ob- 
servers busy, and six more trains were 
bagged. Then, as this was the farthest point 
east to be touched, we turned to the left and 
travelled homeward. 

It was soon afterwards that our engine 
went dud. Instead of a rhythmic and con- 
tinuous hum there was at regular intervals 
a break, caused by one of the cylinders 
missing explosion at each turn of the rotary 
engine. The re v. -counter showed that the 
number of revolutions per minute had fallen 
off appreciably. Decreased revs, meant less 
speed, and our only chance to keep with the 
others was to lose height continuously. We 
were then nearly fifty miles from the lines. 

I noticed the gap in the engine's drone as 
soon as it began. An airman is accustomed 
to the full roar of his engine, and it never 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 81 

distracts his attention, any more than the 
noise of a waterfall distracts those who live 
near it. But if the roar becomes non-con- 
tinuous and irregular he is acutely conscious 
of the sound. 

When the machine began to lose height 
I knew there was a chronic miss. V. looked 
round and smiled reassuringly, though he 
himself was far from reassured. He tried 
an alteration in the carburettor mixture, but 
this did not remedy matters. Next, think- 
ing that the engine might have been slightly 
choked, he cut off the petrol supply for a 
moment and put down the nose of the ma- 
chine. The engine stopped, but picked up 
when the petrol was once more allowed to 
run. During the interval I thought the 
engine had ceased work altogether, and was 
about to stuff things into my pocket in readi- 
ness for a landing on hostile ground. 

We continued in a westerly direction, with 
the one cylinder still cutting out. To make 
matters worse, the strong wind that had 
been our friend on the outward journey 
was now an enemy, for it was drifting us 
to the north, so that we were obliged to 



82 THE FLYING ACE 

steer almost dead into it to follow the set 
course. 

As we passed along the straight canal 
from Le Recul to Princebourg many barges 
were in evidence. Those at the side of the 
canal were taken to be moored up, and those 
in the middle to be moving, though the slow- 
ness of their speed made it impossible to 
decide on their direction, for from a height of 
ten thousand feet they seemed to be sta- 
tionary. About a dozen Hun machines were 
rising from aerodromes at Passementerie, 
away to the left, but if they were after us 
the attempt to reach our height in time was 
futile. 

Between Le Recul and Princebourg we 
dropped fifteen hundred feet below the three 
rear machines, which hovered above us. 
Though I was far from feeling at home, it 
was necessary to sweep the surrounding 
country for transport of all kinds. This was 
done almost automatically, since I found 
myself unable to give a whole-hearted atten- 
tion to the job, while the infernal motif of 
the engine's ragtime drone dominated every- 
thing and invited speculation on how much 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 83 

lower we were than the others, and whether 
we were likely to reach a friendly landing- 
ground. And all the while a troublesome 
verse chose very inopportunely to race across 
the background of my mind, in time with the 
engine, each cut-out being the end of a line. 
Once or twice I caught myself murmuring — 

"In that poor but honest 'onie, 
Where 'er sorrowin' parints live, 
They drink the shampyne wine she sends, 
But never, never can fergive." 

Slightly to the east of Princebourg, a new 
complication appeared in the shape of a 
small German machine. Seeing that our 
bus was in difficulties, it awaited an oppor- 
tunity to pounce, and remained at a height 
slightly greater than ours, but some distance 
behind the bus that acted as rearguard to 
the party. Its speed must have been about 
ten miles an hour more than our own, for 
though the Hun pilot had probably throttled 
down, he was obliged to make his craft snake 
its way in short curves, so that it should not 
come within dangerous range of our guns. 
At times he varied this method by lifting 
the machine almost to stalling point, letting 



84 THE FLYING ACE 

her down again, and repeating the process. 
Once I saw some motor transport on a road. 
I leaned over the side to estimate their num- 
ber, but gave up the task of doing so with 
accuracy under the double strain of watch- 
ing the Hun scout and listening to the jerky 
voice of the engine. 

As we continued to drop, the German 
evidently decided to finish us. He climbed 
a little and then rushed ahead. I fired at 
him in rapid bursts, but he kept to his course. 
He did not come near enough for a dive, 
however, as the rest of the party, two thou- 
sand feet above, had watched his movements, 
and as soon as he began to move nearer two 
of them fell towards him. Seeing that his 
game was spoiled the Boche went down 
steeply, and only flattened out when he was 
low enough to be safe from attack. 

Near St Guillaume an anti-aircraft bat- 
tery opened fire. The Hun pilot then 
thought it better to leave Archie to deal 
with us, and he annoyed us no more. Some 
of the shell-bursts were quite near, and we 
could not afford to lose height in distance- 
dodging, with our machine in a dubious con- 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 85 

dition twenty-five miles on the wrong side 
of the trenches. 

Toutpres, to the south-west, was to have 
been included in the list of towns covered, 
but under the adverse circumstances V. de- 
cided not to battle against the wind more 
than was necessary to get us home. He 
therefore veered to the right, and steered 
due west. The south-west wind cut across 
and drifted us, so that our actual course was 
north-west. Our ground speed was now a 
good deal greater than if we had travelled 
directly west, and there was no extra dis- 
tance to be covered, because of a large east- 
ward bend in the lines as they wound north. 
We skirted the ragged Foret de Quand- 
Meme, and passed St Guillaume on our left. 

The behaviour of the engine went from 
bad to worse, and the vibration became 
more and more intense. Once more I 
thought it would peter out before we were 
within gliding distance of British territory, 
and I therefore made ready to burn the 
machine — the last duty of an airman let 
in for the catastrophe of a landing among 
enemies. But the engine kept alive, ob- 



86 THE FLYING ACE 

stinately and unevenly. V. held down the 
nose of the machine still farther, so as to 
gain the lines in the quickest possible time. 

Soon we were treated to a display by the 
family ghost of the clan Archibald, other- 
wise an immense pillar of grey-white smoky 
substance that appeared very suddenly to 
windward of us. It stretched up vertically 
from the ground to a height about level 
with ours, which was then only five and a 
half thousand feet. We watched it curiously 
as it stood in an unbending rigidity similar 
to that of a gaint waxwork, cold, unnatural, 
stupidly implacable, half unbelievable, and 
wholly ridiculous. At the top it sprayed 
round, like a stick of asparagus. For two 
or three months similar apparitions had been 
exhibited to us at rare intervals, nearly al- 
ways in the same neighbourhood. At first 
sight the pillars of smoke seemed not to 
disperse, but after an interval they appar- 
ently faded away as mysteriously as they 
had appeared. What was meant to be their 
particular branch of frightfulness I cannot 
say. One rumour was that they were an 
experiment in aerial gassing, and another 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 87 

that they were of some phosphorus com- 
pound. All I know is that they entertained 
us from time to time, with no apparent 
damage. 

Archie quickly distracted our attention 
from the phantom pillar. We had been 
drifted to just south of Lille, possibly the 
hottest spot on the whole western front as 
regards anti-aircraft fire. Seeing one ma- 
chine four to five thousand feet below its 
companions, the gunners very naturally con- 
centrated on it. A spasmodic chorus of 
barking coughs drowned the almost equally 
spasmodic roar of the engine. V. dodged 
steeply and then raced, full out, for the lines. 
A sight of the dirty brown jig-saw of trenches 
heartened us greatly. A few minutes later 
we were within gliding distance of the Brit- 
ish front. When we realised that even if 
the engine lost all life we could reach safety, 
nothing else seemed to matter, not even the 
storm of shell-bursts. 

Suddenly the machine quivered, swung to 
the left, and nearly put itself in a flat spin. 
A large splinter of H.E. had sliced away 
part of the rudder. V. banked to prevent 



88 THE FLYING ACE 

an uncontrolled side-slip, righted the bus as 
far as possible, and dived for the lines. These 
we passed at a great pace, but we did not 
shake off Archie until well on the right side, 
for at our low altitude the high-angle guns 
had a large radius of action that could in- 
clude us. However, the menacing coughs 
finally ceased to annoy, and our immediate 
troubles were over. The strain snapped, the 
air was an exhilarating tonic, the sun was 
warmly comforting, and everything seemed 
attractive, even the desolated jumble of 
waste ground below us. I opened a packet 
of chocolate and shared it with V., who 
was trying hard to fly evenly with an un- 
even rudder. I sang to him down the speak- 
ing-tube, but his nerves had stood enough 
for the day, and he wriggled the machine 
from one side to the other until I became 
silent. Contrariwise to the last, our engine 
recovered slightly now that its recovery was 
not so important, and it behaved well until 
it seized up for better or worse when we had 
landed. 

From the aerodrome the pilots proceeded 
to tea and a bath, while we, the unfortunate 



SPYING OUT THE LAND 89 

observers, copied our notes into a detailed 
report, elaborated the sketches of the new 
aerodromes, and drove in our unkempt state 
to Headquarters, there to discuss the recon- 
naissance with spotlessly neat staff officers. 
At the end of the report one must give the 
height at which the job was done, and say 
whether the conditions were favourable or 
otherwise for observation. I thought of the 
absence of thick clouds or mist that might 
have made the work difficult. Then I thought 
of the cylinder that missed and the chunk of 
rudder that was missing, but decided that 
these little inconveniences were unofficial. 
And the legend I felt in duty bound to write 
was: "Height 5,000-10,000 ft. Observation 
easy." 



CHAPTER V. 

THERE AND BACK. 

An inhuman philosopher or a strong, silent 
poseur might affect to treat with indiffer- 
ence his leave from the Front. Personally 
I have never met a philosopher inhuman 
enough or a poseur strongly silent enough to 
repress evidence of wild satisfaction, after 
several months of war at close quarters, on 
being given a railway warrant entitling him 
to ten days of England, home, and no duty. 
But if you are a normal soldier who dislikes 
fighting and detests discomfort, the date of 
your near-future holiday from the dreary 
scene of war will be one of the few problems 
that really matter. 

Let us imagine a slump in great pushes 
at your sector of the line, since only during 
the interval of attack is the leave-list un- 
pigeonholed. The weeks pass and your turn 
creeps close, while you pray that the lull 
may last until the day when, with a heavy 
haversack and a light heart, you set off to 

90 



THERE AND BACK 91 

become a transient in Arcadia. The de- 
sire for a taste of freedom is sharpened by- 
delay; but finally, after disappointment and 
postponement, the day arrives and you de- 
part. Exchanging a "So long" with less 
fortunate members of the mess, you realise a 
vast difference in respective destinies. To- 
morrow the others will be dodging crumps, 
archies, or official chits "for your informa- 
tion, please"; to-morrow, with luck, you will 
be dodging taxis in London. 

During the journey you begin to cast out 
the oppressive feeling that a world and a 
half separates you from the pleasantly un- 
disciplined life you once led. The tense 
influence of those twin bores of active ser- 
vice, routine and risk, gradually loosens hold, 
and your state of mind is tuned to a pitch 
half-way between the note of battle and that 
of a bank-holiday. 

Yet a slight sense of remoteness lingers as 
you enter London. At first view the Char- 
ing Cross loiterers seem more foreign than 
the peasants of Picardy, the Strand and 
Piccadilly less familiar than the Albert- 
Pozieres road. Not till a day or two later, 



92 THE FLYING ACE 

when the remnants of strained pre-occupa- 
tion with the big things of war have been 
charmed away by old haunts and old friends, 
do you feel wholly at home amid your redis- 
covered fellow-citizens, the Man in the Street, 
the Pacifist, the air-raid-funk Hysteric, the 
Lady Flag-Seller, the War Profiteer, the dear- 
boy Fluff Girl, the Prohibitionist, the Eng- 
land-for-the-Irish politician, the Conscientious 
Objector, the hotel-government bureaucrat, 
and other bulwarks of our united Empire. 
For the rest, you will want to cram into 
ten short days the average experiences of 
ten long weeks. If, like most of us, you 
are young and foolish, you will skim the 
bubbling froth of life and seek crowded di- 
version in the lighter follies, the passing 
show T s, and Pamour qui rit. And you will 
probably return to the big things of war 
tired but mightily refreshed, and almost ready 
to welcome a further spell of routine and 
risk. 

The one unsatisfactory aspect of leave 
from France, apart from its rarity, is the 
travelling. This, in a region congested by 
the more important traffic of war, is slow 



THERE AND BACK 93 

and burdensome to the impatient holiday- 
maker. Occasionally the Flying Corps offi- 
cer is able to substitute an excursion by 
air for the land and water journey, if on 
one of the dates that sandwich his leave 
a bus of the type already flown by him must 
be chauffeured across the Channel. Such an 
opportunity is welcome, for besides avoiding 
discomfort, a joy-ride of this description 
often saves time enough to provide an extra 
day in England. 

On the last occasion when I was let loose 
from the front on ticket-of-leave, I added 
twenty-four hours to my Blighty period by 
a chance meeting with a friendly ferry-pilot 
and a resultant trip as passenger in an aero- 
plane from a home depot. Having covered 
the same route by train and boat a few days 
previously, a comparison between the two 
methods of travel left me an enthusiast for 
aerial transport in the golden age of after- 
the-war. 

The leave train at Arriere was time-tabled 
for midnight, but as, under a war-time edict, 
French cafes and places where they lounge 
are closed at 10 p.m., it was at this hour that 



94 THE FLYING ACE 

muddied officers and Tommies from every 
part of the Somme basin began to crowd 
the station. 

Though confronted with a long period of 
waiting, in a packed entrance-hall that was 
only half-lit and contained five seats to be 
scrambled for by several hundred men, every 
one, projected beyond the immediate discom- 
fort to the good time coming, seemed con- 
tent. The atmosphere of jolly expectancy 
was comparable to that of Waterloo Station 
on the morning of Derby Day. Scores of 
little groups gathered to talk the latest shop- 
talk from the trenches. A few of us who 
were acquainted with the corpulent and affa- 
ble R.T.O.— it is part of an R.T.O.'s stock- 
in-trade to be corpulent and affable — sought 
out his private den, and exchanged yarns 
while commandeering his whisky. Stuff Re- 
doubt had been stormed a few days pre- 
viously, and a Canadian captain, who had 
been among the first to enter the Hun strong- 
hold, told of the assault. A sapper discussed 
some recent achievements of mining parties. 
A tired gunner subaltern spoke viciously of 
a stupendous bombardment that allowed lit- 



THERE AND BACK 95 

tie rest, less sleep, and no change of clothes. 
Time was overcome easily in thus looking at 
war along the varying angles of the infantry- 
man, the gunner, the engineer, the machine- 
gun performer, and the flying officer, all 
fresh from their work. 

The train, true to the custom of leave 
trains, was very late. When it did arrive, 
the good-natured jostling for seats again re- 
minded one of the London to Epsom traffic 
of Derby Day. Somehow the crowd was 
squeezed into carriage accommodation barely 
sufficient for two-thirds of its number, and 
we left Arriere. Two French and ten British 
officers obtained a minimum of space in my 
compartment. We sorted out our legs, arms, 
and luggage, and tried to rest. 

In my case sleep was ousted by thoughts 
of what was ahead. Ten days' freedom in 
England! The stout major on my left 
snored. The head of the hard-breathing 
Frenchman to the right slipped on to my 
shoulder. An unkempt subaltern opposite 
wriggled and turned in a vain attempt to 
find ease. I was damnably cramped, but 
above all impatient for the morrow. A pass- 



96 THE FLYING ACE 

ing train shrieked. Cold whiffs from the 
half -open window cut the close atmosphere. 
Slowly, and with frequent halts for the pas- 
sage of war freights more urgent than our- 
selves, our train chugged northward. One 
hour, two hours, three hours of stuffy dim- 
ness and acute discomfort. Finally I sank 
into a troubled doze. When we were called 
outside Boulogne, I found my hand poised 
on the stout major's bald head, as if in 
benediction. 

The soldier on leave, eager to be done 
with the preliminary journey, chafes at in- 
evitable delay in Boulogne. Yet this largest 
of channel ports, in its present state, can 
show the casual passer-by much that is in- 
teresting. It has become almost a new town 
during the past three years. Formerly a 
headquarters of pleasure, a fishing centre 
and a principal port of call for Anglo-Con- 
tinental travel, it has been transformed into 
an important military base. It is now wholly 
of the war; the armies absorb everything 
that it transfers from sea to railway, from 
human fuel for war's blast-furnace to the 
fish^caught outside the harbour. The mul- 



THERE AND BACK 97 

titude of visitors from across the Channel is 
larger than ever; but instead of Paris, the 
Mediterranean, and the East, they are bound 
for less attractive destinations — the muddy 
battle-area and Kingdom Come. 

The spirit of the place is altogether 
changed. From time immemorial Boulogne 
has included an English alloy in its French 
composition, but prior to the war it shared 
with other coastal resorts of France an out- 
look of smiling carelessness. Superficially it 
now seems more British than French, and, 
partly by reason of this, it impresses one 
as being severely business-like. The great 
number of khaki travellers is rivalled by a 
huge colony of khaki Base workers. Except 
for a few matelots, French fishermen, and 
the wharfside cafes, there is nothing to dis- 
tinguish the quays from those of a British 
port. 

The blue-bloused porters who formerly met 
one with volubility and the expectation of a 
fabulous tip have given place to khakied or- 
derlies, the polite customs officials to old- 
soldier myrmidons of the worried embarka- 
tion officer. Store dumps with English 



98 THE FLYING ACE 

markings are packed symmetrically on the 
cobbled stones. The transport lorries are all 
British, some of them still branded with 
the names of well-known London firms. 
Newly-built supply depots, canteens, and 
military institutes fringe the town proper or 
rise behind the sand-ridges. One-time hotels 
and casinos along the sea-front between 
Boulogne and Wimereux have become hos- 
pitals, to which, by day and by night, the 
smooth-running motor ambulances bring 
broken soldiers. Other of the larger hotels, 
like the Folkestone and the Meurice, are 
now patronised almost exclusively by British 
officers. 

The military note dominates everything. 
A walk through the main streets leaves an 
impression of mixed uniforms — bedraggled 
uniforms from trench and dug-out, neat rain- 
bow-tabbed uniforms worn by officers at- 
tached to the Base, graceful nursing uniforms, 
haphazard convalescent uniforms, discoloured 
blue uniforms of French permissionaires. 
Everybody is bilingual, speaking, if not both 
English and French, either one or other of 
these languages and the formless Angliche 



THERE AND BACK 99 

patois invented by Tommy and his hosts of 
the occupied zone. And everybody, soldier 
and civilian, treats as a matter of course the 
strange metamorphosis of what was formerly 
a haven for the gentle tourist. 

The boat, due to steam off at eleven, left 
at noon, — a creditable performance as leave- 
boats go. On this occasion there was good 
reason for the delay, as we ceded the right 
of way to a hospital ship and waited while 
a procession of ambulance cars drove along 
the quay and unloaded their stretcher cases. 
The Red Cross vessel churned slowly out of 
the harbour, and we followed at a respectful 
distance. 

Passengers on a Channel leave-boat are 
quieter than might be expected. With the 
country of war behind them they have at- 
tained the third degree of content, and so 
novel is this state after months of living on 
edge that the short crossing does not allow 
sufficient time for them to be moved to ex- 
uberance. One promenades the crowded 
deck happily, taking care not to tread on 
the staff spurs, and talks of fighting as if it 
were a thing of the half-forgotten past. 



100 THE FLYING ACE 

But there is no demonstration. In a well- 
known illustrated weekly a recent frontis- 
piece, supposedly drawn "from material sup- 
plied," depicts a band of beaming Tommies, 
with weird water-bottles, haversacks, mess- 
tins, and whatnots dangling from their sheep- 
skin coats, throwing caps and cheers high into 
the air as they greet the cliffs of England. As 
the subject of an Academy picture, or an 
illustration for "The Hero's Homecoming, or 
How a Bigamist Made Good," the sketch 
would be excellent. But, except for the 
beaming faces, it is fanciful. A shadowy 
view of the English coast-line draws a crowd 
to the starboard side of the boat, whence one 
gazes long and joyfully at the dainty cliffs. 
Yet there is no outward sign of excitement; 
the deep satisfaction felt by all is of too 
intimate a nature to call for cheering and 
cap-throwing. The starboard deck remains 
crowded as the shore looms larger, and until, 
on entry into Dovstone harbour, one pre- 
pares for disembarkation. 

The Front seemed very remote from the 
train that carried us from Dovstone to Lon- 
don. How could one think of the wilderness 



THERE AND BACK 101 

with the bright hop-fields of Kent chasing 
past the windows? Then came the mass- 
meeting of brick houses that skirt London, 
and finally the tunnel which is the approach 
to the terminus. As the wheels rumbled 
through the darkness of it they suggested 
some lines of stray verse beginning — 

"Twenty to eleven by all the clocks of Piccadilly; 
Buy your love a lily-bloom, buy your love a rose." 

It had been raining, and the faint yet un- 
mistakable tang sniffed from wet London 
streets made one feel at home more than 
anything else. We dispersed, each to make 
his interval of heaven according to taste, 
means, and circumstances. That same eve- 
ning I was fortunate in being helped to for- 
get the realities of war by two experiences. 
A much-mustached A. P.M. threatened me 
with divers penalties for the wearing of a 
soft hat; and I was present at a merry gath- 
ering of theatrical luminaries, enormously in- 
terested in themselves, but enormously bored 
by the war, which usurped so much news- 
paper space that belonged by rights to the 
lighter drama. 

Curtain and interval of ten days, at the 



102 THE FLYING ACE 

end of which I was offered a place as pas- 
senger in a machine destined for my own 
squadron. The bus was to be taken to an 
aircraft depot in France from Rafborough 
Aerodrome. Rafborough is a small town gal- 
vanised into importance by its association 
with flying. Years ago, in the far-away days 
when aviation itself was matter for wonder, 
the pioneers who concerned themselves with 
the possibilities of war flying made their 
headquarters at Rafborough. An experimen- 
tal factory, rich in theory, was established, 
and near it was laid out an aerodrome for the 
more practical work. Thousands of machines 
have since been tested on the rough-grassed 
aerodrome, while the neighbouring Royal Air- 
craft Factory has continued to produce de- 
signs, ideas, aeroplanes, engines, and aircraft 
accessories. Formerly most types of new ma- 
chines were put through their official paces at 
Rafborough, and most types, including some 
captures from the Huns, were to be seen in 
its sheds. Probably Rafborough has har- 
boured a larger variety of aircraft and air- 
craft experts than any other place in the 
world. 



THERE AND BACK 103 

My friend the ferry-pilot having announced 
that the carriage waited, I strapped our bag- 
gage, some new gramophone records, and my- 
self into the observer's office. I also took — 
tell this not in Gath, for the transport of 
dogs by aeroplane has been forbidden — a 
terrier pup sent to a fellow-officer by his 
family. At first the puppy was on a cord 
attached to some bracing-wires; but as he 
showed fright when the machine took off 
from the ground, I kept him on my lap for 
a time. Here he remained subdued and ap- 
parently uninterested. Later, becoming in- 
ured to the engine's drone and the slight 
vibration, he roused himself and wanted to 
explore the narrowing passage toward the 
tail-end of the fuselage. The little chap was, 
however, distinctly pleased to be on land 
again at Saint Gregoire, where he kept well 
away from the machine, as if uncertain 
whether the strange giant of an animal were 
friendly or a dog-eater. 

It was a morning lovely enough to be that 
of the world's birthday. Not a cloud flecked 
the sky, the flawless blue of which was made 
tenuous by the sunlight. The sun brightened 



104 THE FLYING ACE 

the kaleidoscopic earthscape below us, so that 
rivers and canals looked like quicksilver 
threads, and even the railway lines glistened. 
The summer countryside, as viewed from an 
aeroplane, is to my mind the finest scene in 
the world — an unexampled scene, of which 
poets will sing in the coming days of univer- 
sal flight. The varying browns and greens of 
the field-pattern merge into one another deli- 
cately; the woods, splashes of bottle-green, 
relieve the patchwork of hedge from too 
ordered a scheme; rivers and roads criss- 
cross in riotous manner over the vast tap- 
estry; pleasant villages and farm buildings 
snuggle in the valleys or straggle on the 
slopes. The wide and changing perspective 
is full of a harmony unspoiled by the jarring 
notes evident on solid ground. Ugliness and 
dirt are camouflaged by the clean top of 
everything. Grimy towns and jerry-built 
suburbs seem almost attractive when seen 
in mass from a height. Slums, the dead 
uniformity of long rows of houses, sordid 
back-gardens, bourgeois public statues — all 
these eyesores are mercifully hidden by the 
roofed surface. The very factory chimneys 



THERE AND BACK 105 

have a certain air of impressiveness, in com- 
mon with church towers and the higher 
buildings. Once, on flying over the pottery 
town of Coalport — the most uninviting place 
I have ever visited — I found that the altered 
perspective made it look delightful. 

A westward course, with the fringe of 
London away on our left, brought us to the 
coast-line all too soon. Passing Dovstone, 
the bus continued across the Channel. A 
few ships, tiny and slow-moving when ob- 
served from a machine at 8000 feet and trav- 
elling 100 miles an hour, spotted the sea. A 
cluster of what were probably destroyers 
threw out trails of dark smoke. From above 
mid-Channel we could see plainly the two 
coasts — that of England knotted into small 
creeks and capes, that of France bent into 
large curves, except for the sharp corner at 
Grisnez. Behind was Blighty, with its great- 
ness and its — sawdust. Ahead was the prov- 
ince of battle, with its good-fellowship and 
its — mud. I lifted the puppy to show him 
his new country, but he merely exhibited 
boredom and a dislike of the sudden rush of 
air. 



106 THE FLYING ACE 

From Cape Grisnez we steered north-east 
towards Calais, so as to have a clearly de- 
fined course to the aircraft depot of Saint 
Gregoire. After a cross-Channel flight one 
notes a marked difference between the French 
and English earthscapes. The French towns 
and villages seem to sprawl less than those 
of England, and the countryside in general 
is more compact and regular. The roads are 
straight and tree-bordered, so that they form 
almost as good a guide to an airman as the 
railways. In England the roads twist and 
twirl through each other like the threads of 
a spider's web, and failing rail or river or 
prominent landmarks, one usually steers by 
compass rather than trust to roads. 

At Calais we turned to the right and fol- 
lowed a network of canals south-westward to 
Saint Gregoire, where was an aircraft depot 
similar to the one at Rafborough. New ma- 
chines call at Saint Gregoire before passing to 
the service of aerodromes, and in its work- 
shops machines damaged but repairable are 
made fit for further service. It is also a 
higher training centre for airmen. Before 
they join a squadron pilots fresh from their 



THERE AND BACK 107 

instruction in England gain experience on 
service machines belonging to the "pool" at 
Saint Gregoire. 

Having been told by telephone from my 
squadron that one of our pilots had been 
detailed to take the recently arrived bus to 
the Somme, I awaited his arrival and passed 
the time to good purpose in watching the 
aerobatics and sham fights of the pool pupils. 
Every now and then another plane from 
England would arrive high over the aero- 
drome, spiral down and land into the wind. 
The ferry-pilot who had brought me left for 
Rafborough almost immediately on a much- 
flown "quirk." The machine he had de- 
livered at Saint Gregoire was handed over to 
a pilot from Umpty Squadron when the lat- 
ter reported, and we took to the air soon after 
lunch. The puppy travelled by road over 
the last lap of his long journey, in the com- 
pany of a lorry driver. 

The bus headed east while climbing, for 
we had decided to follow the British lines 
as far as the Somme, a course which would 
be prolific in interesting sights, and which 
would make us eligible for that rare gift of 



108 THE FLYING ACE 

the gods, an air-fight over friendly territory. 

The coloured panorama below gave place 
gradually to a wilderness — ugly brown and 
pock-marked. The roads became bare and 
dented, the fields were mottled by shell- 
holes, the woods looked like scraggy patches 
of burnt furze. It was a district of great 
deeds and glorious deaths — the desolation 
surrounding the Fronts of yesterday and 
to-day. 

North of Ypres we turned to the right 
and hovered a while over this city of ghosts. 
Seen from above, the shell of the ancient 
city suggests a grim reflection on the muta- 
bility of beauty. I sought a comparison, 
and could think of nothing but the skeleton 
of a once charming woman. The ruins stood 
out in a magnificent disorder that was starkly 
impressive. Walls without roof, buildings 
with two sides, churches without tower, were 
everywhere prominent, as though proud to 
survive the orgy of destruction. The shat- 
tered Cathedral retained much of its former 
grandeur. Only the old Cloth Hall, half- 
razed and without arch or belfry, seemed to 
cry for vengeance on the vandalism that 



THERE AND BACK 109 

wrecked it. The gaping skeleton was grey- 
white, as if sprinkled by the powder of decay. 
And one fancies that at night-time the ghosts 
of 1915 mingle with the ghosts of Philip of 
Spain's era of conquest and the ghosts of 
great days in other centuries, as they search 
the ruins for relics of the city they knew. 

Left of us was the salient, studded with 
bro*ken villages that became household names 
during the two epic Battles of Ypres. The 
brown soil was dirty, shell-ploughed, and al- 
together unlovely. Those strange markings, 
which from our height looked like the tor- 
tuous pathways of a serpent, were the 
trenches, old and new, front-line, support, 
and communication. Small saps projected 
from the long lines at every angle. So com- 
plicated was the jumble that the sinister 
region of No Man's Land, with its shell- 
holes, dead bodies, and barbed wire, was 
scarcely distinguishable. 

A brown strip enclosed the trenches and 
wound northward and southward. Its sur- 
face had been torn and battered by innu- 
merable shells. On its fringe, among the 
copses and crests, were the guns, though 



110 THE FLYING ACE 

these were evidenced only by an occasional 
flash. Behind, in front, and around them 
were those links in the chain of war, the oft- 
cut telephone wires. The desolation seemed 
utterly bare, though one knew that over and 
under it, hidden from eyes in the air, swarmed 
the slaves of the gun, the rifle, and the bomb. 

Following the belt of wilderness south- 
ward, we were obliged to veer to the right 
at St. Eloi, so as to round a sharp bend. 
Below the bend, and on the wrong side of 
it, was the Messines Ridge, the recent cap- 
ture of which has straightened the line as 
far as Hooge, and flattened the Ypres salient 
out of existence as a salient. Next came the 
torn and desolate outline of Plug Street 
Wood, and with it reminiscences of a splen- 
did struggle against odds when shell-shortage 
hampered our 1915 armies. Armentieres ap- 
peared still worthy to be called a town. It 
was battered, but much less so than Ypres, 
possibly because it was a hotbed of German 
espionage until last year. The triangular 
denseness of Lille loomed up from the flat 
soil on our left. 

As we passed down the line the brown 



THERE AND BACK 111 

band narrowed until it seemed a strip of 
discoloured water-marked ribbon sewn over 
the mosaic of open country. The trench- 
lines were monotonous in their sameness. 
The shell-spotted area bulged at places, as 
for example Festubert, Neuve Chapelle (of 
bitter memory), Givenchy, Hulluch, and 
Loos. Lens, well behind the German trenches 
in those days, showed few marks of bom- 
bardment. The ribbon of ugliness widened 
again between Souchez and the yet uncap- 
tured Vimy Ridge, but afterwards contracted 
as far as Arras, that ragged sentinel of the 
war frontier. 

At Arras we entered our own particular 
province, which, after months of flying over 
it, I knew better than my native county. 
Gun-flashes became numerous, kite balloons 
hung motionless, and we met restless aero- 
plane formations engaged on defensive pa- 
trols. With these latter on guard our chance 
of a scrap with roving enemy craft would 
have been remote; though for that matter 
neither we nor they saw a single black- 
crossed machine throughout the afternoon. 

From Gommecourt to the Somme was an 



112 THE FLYING ACE 

area of concentrated destruction. The wil- 
derness swelled outwards, becoming twelve 
miles wide at parts. Tens of thousands of 
shells had pocked the dirty soil, scores of 
mine explosions had cratered it. Only the 
pen of a Zola could describe adequately the 
zone's intense desolation, as seen from the 
air. Those ruins, suggestive of abandoned 
scrap-heaps, were formerly villages. They 
had been made familiar to the world through 
matter-of-fact reports of attack and counter- 
attack, capture and recapture. Each had a 
tale to tell of systematic bombardment, of 
crumbling walls, of wild hand-to-hand fight- 
ing, of sudden evacuation and occupation. 
Now they were nothing but useless piles of 
brick and glorious names — Thiepval, Pozieres, 
La Boiselle, Guillemont, Flers, Hardecourt, 
Guinchy, Combles, Bouchavesnes, and a 
dozen others. 

Of all the crumbled roads the most strik- 
ing was the long, straight one joining Albert 
and Bapaume. It looked fairly regular for 
the most part, except where the trenches cut 
it. Beyond the scrap-heap that once was 
Pozieres two enormous quarries dipped into 



THERE AND BACK 113 

the earth on either side of the road. Until 
the Messines explosion they were the largest 
mine craters on the western front. Farther 
along the road was the scene of the first 
tank raids, where on September 16 the metal 
monsters waddled across to the gaping enemy 
and ate up his pet machine-gun emplace- 
ments before he had time to recover from 
his surprise. At the road's end was the for- 
lorn stronghold of Bapaume. One by one 
the lines of defence before it had been stormed, 
and it was obvious that the town must fall, 
though its capture was delayed until months 
later by a fierce defence at the Butte de 
Warlencourt and elsewhere. The advance to- 
wards Bapaume was of special interest to 
R.F.C. squadrons on the Somme, for the 
town had been a troublesome centre of anti- 
aircraft devilries. Our field-guns now being 
too close for Herr Archie, he had moved to 
more comfortable headquarters. 

Some eight miles east of Bapaume the 
Bois d'Havrincourt stood out noticeably. 
Around old Mossy-Face, as the wood was 
known in R.F.C. messes, were clustered many 
Boche aerodromes. Innumerable duels had 



114 THE FLYING ACE 

been fought in the air-country between 
Mossy -Face and the lines. Every fine day 
the dwellers in the trenches before Bapaume 
saw machines swerving round each other in 
determined effort to destroy. This region 
was the hunting-ground of many dead nota- 
bilities of the air, including the Fokker stars 
Boelcke and Immelmann, besides British 
pilots as brilliant but less advertised. 

Below the Pozieres-Bapaume road were five 
small woods, grouped like the Great Bear 
constellation of stars. Their roots were feed- 
ing on hundreds of dead bodies, after each 
of the five — Trones, Mametz, Foureaux, Del- 
ville, and Bouleaux — had seen wild encoun- 
ters with bomb and bayonet beneath its dead 
trees. Almost in the same position relative 
to the cluster of woods as is the North Star 
to the Great Bear, was a scrap-heap larger 
than most, amid a few walls yet upright. 
This was all that remained of the fortress of 
Combles. For two years the enemy strength- 
ened it by every means known to military 
science, after which the British and French 
rushed in from opposite sides and met in 
the main street. 



THERE AND BACK 115 

A few minutes down the line brought our 
machine to the sparkling Somme, the white 
town of Peronne, and the then junction of 
the British and French lines. We turned 
north-west and made for home. Passing over 
some lazy sausage balloons, we reached Albert. 
Freed at last from the intermittent shelling 
from which it suffered for so long, the town was 
picking up the threads of activity. The 
sidings were full of trucks, and a procession 
of some twenty lorries moved slowly up the 
road to Bouzincourt. As reminder of anxious 
days, we noted a few skeleton roofs, and the 
giant Virgin Mary in tarnished gilt, who, 
after withstanding bombardments sufficient 
to have wrecked a cathedral, leaned over at 
right angles to her pedestal, suspended in ap- 
parently miraculous fashion by the three re- 
maining girders. 

We flew once more over a countryside of 
multi-coloured crops and fantastic woods, and 
so to the aerodrome. 

Snatches of familiar flying-talk, unheard 
during the past ten days of leave, floated 
from the tea-table as I entered the mess: 



116 THE FLYING ACE 

"Came in with drift — dud pressure — wings 
crumpled up as he dived — weak factor of 
safety — side-slipped away from Archie — ver- 
tical gust — choked on the fine adjustment — 
made rings round the Hun — went down in 
flames near Douai." 

The machine that "went down in flames 
near "Douai" was piloted by the man whose 
puppy I had brought from England. 



CHAPTER VI. 

A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE. 

Clouds, say the text-books of meteorology, 
are collections of partly condensed water 
vapour or of fine ice crystals. Clouds, men- 
tioned in terms of the newspaper and the 
club, are dingy masses of nebulousness under 
which the dubious politician, company pro- 
moter, or other merchant of hot air is hidden 
from open attack and exposure. Clouds, to 
the flying officer on active service, are either 
useful friends or unstrafeable enemies. The 
hostile clouds are very high and of the ice- 
crystal variety. They form a light back- 
ground, against which aeroplanes are boldly 
silhouetted, to the great advantage of the 
anti-aircraft gunners. The friendly or water- 
vapour clouds are to be found several thou- 
sands of feet lower. If a pilot be above them 
they help him to dodge writs for trespass, 
which Archibald the bailiff seeks to hand 
him. When numerous enough to make at- 
tempts at observation ineffective, they per- 
il? 



118 THE FLYING ACE 

form an even greater service for hirn — that 
of arranging for a day's holiday. And at 
times the R.F.C. pilot, like the man with a 
murky past, is constrained to have clouds 
for a covering against attack; as you shall 
see if you will accompany me on the trip 
about to be described. 

The period is the latter half of September, 
1916, a time of great doings on the Somme 
front. After a few weeks of comparative 
inaction — if methodical consolidation and in- 
tense artillery preparation can be called in- 
action — the British are once more denting 
the Boche line. Flers, Martinpuich, Cour- 
celette, and Eaucourt PAbbaye have fallen 
within the past week, and the tanks have 
just made their first ungainly bow before 
the curtain of war, with the superlatives of 
the war correspondent in close attendance. 
Leave from France has been cancelled in- 
definitely. 

Our orders are to carry through all the 
reconnaissance work allotted to us, even 
though weather conditions place such duties 
near the border-line of possible accomplish- 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 119 

ment. That is why we now propose to leave 
the aerodrome, despite a great lake of cloud 
that only allows the sky to be seen through 
rare gaps, and a sixty-mile wind that will 
fight us on the outward journey. Under these 
circumstances we shall probably find no 
friendly craft east of the trenches, and, as a 
consequence, whatever Hun machines are in 
the air will be free to deal with our party. 
However, since six machines are detailed for 
the job, I console myself with the old tag 
about safety in numbers. 

We rise to a height of 3000 feet, and ren- 
dezvous there. From the flight-commander's 
bus I look back to see how the formation is 
shaping, and discover that we number but 
five, one machine having failed to start by 
reason of a dud engine. We circle the aero- 
drome, waiting for a sixth bus, but nobody 
is sent to join us. The "Carry on" signal 
shows up from the ground, and we head 
eastward. 

After climbing another fifteen hundred feet, 
we enter the clouds. It is now impossible to 
see more than a yard or two through the 
intangible wisps of grey-white vapour that 



120 THE FLYING ACE 

seem to float around us, so that our forma- 
tion loses its symmetry, and we become 
scattered. Arrived in the clear atmosphere 
above the clouds my pilot throttles down 
until the rear machines have appeared and 
re-formed. We then continue in the direc- 
tion of the trenches, with deep blue infinity 
above and the unwieldy cloud-banks below. 
Familiar landmarks show up from time to 
time through holes in the white screen. 

Against the violent wind, far stronger than 
we found it near the ground, we make la- 
boured progress. Evidently, two of the for- 
mation are in difficulties, for they drop 
farther and farther behind. Soon one gives 
in and turns back, the pilot being unable 
to maintain pressure for his petrol supply. 
I shout the news through the speaking-tube, 
and hear, in reply from the flight-commander, 
a muffled comment, which might be "Well!" 
but it is more likely to be something else. 
Three minutes later the second bus in trouble 
turns tail. Its engine has been missing on 
one cylinder since the start, and is not in a 
fit state for a trip over enemy country. Again 
I call to the leader, and again hear a word 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 121 

ending in "ell." The two remaining ma- 
chines close up, and we continue. Very sud- 
denly one of them drops out, with a rocker- 
arm gone. Its nose goes down, and it glides 
into the clouds. Yet again I call the flight- 
commander's attention to our dwindling num- 
bers, and this time I cannot mistake the 
single-syllabled reply. It is a full-throated 
"Hell!" 

For my part I compare the party to the 
ten little nigger boys, and wonder when the 
only survivor, apart from our own machine, 
will leave. I look towards it anxiously. The 
wings on one side are much lighter than 
those on the other, and I therefore recognise 
it as the Tripehound's bus. There is ground 
for misgiving, for on several occasions during 
the past ten minutes it has seemed to fly in 
an erratic manner. The cause of this, as we 
find out on our return, is that for five min- 
utes the Tripehound has been leaning over 
the side, with the joystick held between his 
knees while attempting to fasten a small door 
in the cowling round the engine, left open 
by a careless mechanic. It is important to 
shut the opening, as otherwise the wind may 



122 THE FLYING ACE 

rush inside and tear off the cowling. Just 
as a short band of the trench line south of 
Arras can be seen through a gap, the Tripe- 
hound, having found that he cannot possibly 
reach far enough to close the protruding door, 
signals that he must go home. 

I do not feel altogether sorry to see our 
last companion leave, as we have often been 
told not to cross the lines on a reconnais- 
sance flight with less than three machines; 
and with the wind and the low clouds, which 
now form an opaque window, perforated here 
and there by small holes, a long observa- 
tion journey over Bocheland by a single 
aeroplane does not seem worth while. But 
the flight-commander, remembering the re- 
cent order about completing a reconnaissance 
at all costs, thinks differently and decides to 
go on. To get our bearings he holds down 
the nose of the machine until we have de- 
scended beneath the clouds, and into full 
view of the open country. 

We find ourselves a mile or two beyond 
Arras. As soon as the bus appears it is 
bracketed in front, behind, and on both sides 
by black shell-bursts. We swerve aside, but 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 123 

more shells quickly follow. The shooting is 
particularly good, for the Archie people have 
the exact range of the low clouds slightly 
above us. Three times we hear the hiss of 
flying fragments of high explosive, and the 
lower left plane is unevenly punctured. We 
lose height for a second to gather speed, and 
then, to my relief, the pilot zooms up to a 
cloud. Although the gunners can no longer 
see their target, they loose off a few more 
rounds and trust to luck that a stray shell 
may find us. These bursts are mostly far 
wide of the mark, although two of them 
make ugly black blotches against the white- 
ness of the vapour through which we are 
rising. 

Once more we emerge into the open space 
between sky and cloud. The flight-command- 
er takes the mouthpiece of his telephone 
tube and shouts to me that he intends com- 
pleting the round above the clouds. To let 
me search for railway and other traffic he 
will descend into view of the ground at the 
most important points. He now sets a com- 
pass course for Toutpres, the first large town 
of the reconnaissance, while I search all 



124 THE FLYING ACE 

around for possible enemies. At present the 
sky is clear, but at any minute enemy police 
craft may appear from the unbroken blue or 
rise through the clouds. 

The slowness of our ground speed, due to 
the fierce wind, allows me plenty of time to 
admire the strangely beautiful surroundings. 
Above is the inverted bowl of blue, bright 
for the most part, but duller towards the 
horizon-rim. The sun pours down a vivid 
light, which spreads quicksilver iridescence 
over the cloud-tops. Below is the cloud- 
scape, fantastic and far-stretching. The 
shadow of our machine is surrounded by 
a halo of sunshine as it darts along the ir- 
regular white surface. The clouds dip, climb, 
twist, and flatten into every conceivable 
shape. Thrown together as they never could 
be on solid earth are outlines of the wildest 
and tamest features of a world unspoiled by 
battlefield, brick towns, ruins, or other ulcers 
on the face of nature. Jagged mountains, 
forests, dainty hills, waterfalls, heavy seas, 
plateaux, precipices, quiet lakes, rolling plains, 
caverns, chasms, and dead deserts merge into 
one another, all in a uniform white, as though 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 125 

wrapped in cotton wool and laid out for 
inspection in haphazard continuity. And 
yet, for all its mad irregularity, the cloud- 
scape from above is perfectly harmonious 
and never tiring. One wants to land on the 
clean surface and explore the jungled con- 
tinent. Sometimes, when passing a high pro- 
jection, the impulse comes to lean over and 
grab a handful of the fleecy covering. 

After being shut off from the ground for a 
quarter of an hour, we are able to look down 
through a large chasm. Two parallel canals 
cut across it, and these we take to be part 
of the canal junction below Toutpres. This 
agrees with our estimate of speed, wind, 
and time, according to which we should be 
near the town. The pilot takes the machine 
through the clouds, and we descend a few 
hundred feet below them. 

To disconcert Archie we travel in zigzags, 
while I search for items of interest. A train 
is moving south, and another is entering 
Toutpres from the east. A few barges are 
dotted among the various canals. Bordering 
a wood to the west is an aerodrome. About 
a dozen aeroplanes are in line on the ground, 



126 THE FLYING ACE 

but the air above it is empty of Boche craft. 

Evidently the Huns below had not ex- 
pected a visit from hostile machines on such 
a day, for Archie allows several minutes to 
pass before introducing himself. A black 
puff then appears on our level some distance 
ahead. We change direction, but the gun- 
ners find our new position and send bursts 
all round the bus. The single wouff of the 
first shot has become a jerky chorus that 
swells or dwindles according to the number 
of shells and their nearness. 

I signal to the flight-commander that I 
have finished with Toutpres, whereupon we 
climb into the clouds and comparative safety. 
We rise above the white intangibility and 
steer north-east, in the direction of Passe- 
menterie. I continue to look for possible 
aggressors. The necessity for a careful look- 
out is shown when a group of black specks 
appears away to the south, some fifteen hun- 
dred feet above us. In this area and under 
to-day's weather conditions, the odds are a 
hundred to one that they will prove to be 
Bodies. 

W T e lose height until our bus is on the 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 127 

fringe of the clouds and ready to escape 
out of sight. Apparently the newcomers do 
not spot us in the first place, for they are 
flying transverse to our line of flight. A few 
minutes later they make the discovery, turn 
in our direction, and begin a concerted dive. 
All this while I have kept my field-glasses 
trained on them, and as one machine turns 
I can see the Maltese crosses painted on the 
wings. The question of the strangers' na- 
tionality being answered, we slip into a cloud 
to avoid attack. 

The flight-commander thinks it advisable 
to remain hidden by keeping inside the clouds. 
He must therefore steer entirely by compass, 
without sun or landmark to guide him. As 
we leave the clear air a left movement of the 
rudder, without corresponding bank, swings 
the machine to the north, so that its nose 
points away from the desired course. The 
pilot puts on a fraction of right rudder to 
counteract the deviation. We veer east- 
ward, but rather too much, if the swaying 
needle of the compass is to be believed. A 
little left rudder again puts the needle into 
an anti-clockwise motion. With his atten- 



128 THE FLYING ACE 

tion concentrated on our direction, the pilot, 
impatient at waiting for the needle to be- 
come steady, unconsciously kicks the rudder- 
controls, first to one side, then to the other. 
The needle begins to swing around, and the 
compass is thus rendered useless for the time 
being. For the next minute or two, until it 
is safe to leave the clouds, the pilot must 
now keep the machine straight by instinct, 
and trust to his sense of direction. 

A similar mishap often happens when fly- 
ing through cloud. Pilots have been known 
to declare that all compasses are liable to 
swing of their own accord when in clouds, 
though the real explanation is probably that 
they themselves have disturbed the needle 
unduly by a continuous pressure on each 
side of the rudder-bar in turn, thus causing 
an oscillation of the rudder and a consequent 
zigzagged line of flight. The trouble is more 
serious than it would seem to the layman, 
as when the compass is out of action, and 
no other guides are available, one tends to 
drift round in a large circle, like a man lost 
in the jungle. Should the craft be driven 
by a rotary engine, the torque, or outward 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 129 

wash from the propeller, may make a ma- 
chine edge more and more to the left, unless 
the pilot is careful to allow for this tendency. 

Such a drift to the left has taken us well 
to the north of a straight line between Tout- 
pres and Passementerie, as we discover on 
leaving the clouds for a second or two, so 
as to correct the error with the aid of land- 
marks. But the compass has again settled 
down to good behaviour, and we are able 
to get a true course before we climb back 
to the sheltering whiteness. 

A flight inside the clouds is far from 
pleasant. We are hemmed in by a drifting 
formlessness that looks like thin steam, but, 
unlike steam, imparts a sensation of coldness 
and clamminess. The eye cannot penetrate 
farther than about a yard beyond the wing 
tips. Nothing is to be seen but the aero- 
plane, nothing is to be heard but the droning 
hum of the engine, which seems louder than 
ever amid the isolation. 

I am bored, cold, and uncomfortable. Time 
drags along lamely; five minutes masquerade 
as half an hour, and only by repeated glances 
at the watch do I convince myself that we 



130 THE FLYING ACE 

cannot yet have reached the next objective. 
I study the map for no particular reason 
except that it is something to do. Then I 
decide that the Lewis gun ought to be fired 
as a test whether the working parts are still 
in good order. I hold the spade-grip, swing 
round the circular mounting until the gun 
points to the side, and loose five rounds 
into the unpleasant vapour. The flight-com- 
mander, startled at the sudden clatter, turns 
round. Finding that the fire was mine and 
not an enemy's, he shakes his fist as a pro- 
test against the sudden disturbance. Even 
this action is welcome, as being evidence of 
companionship. 

When the pilot, judging that Passemen- 
terie should be below, takes the machine 
under the clouds, I feel an immense relief, 
even though the exit is certain to make us 
a target for Archie. We emerge slightly to 
the west of the town. There is little to be 
observed; the railways are bare of trains, 
and the station contains only an average 
number of trucks. Four black-crossed aero- 
planes are flying over their aerodrome at a 
height of some two thousand feet. Three of 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 131 

theiii begin to climb, perhaps in an attempt 
to intercept us. However, our bus has plenty 
of time to disappear, and this we do quickly 
— so quickly that the A.-A. batteries have 
only worried us to the extent of half a dozen 
shells, all wide of the mark. 

We rise right through the white screen 
into full view of the sun. Apparently the 
sky is clear of intruders, so we turn for 
three-quarters of a circle and head for Plus- 
pres, the third point of call. The wind now 
being behind the machine in a diagonal di- 
rection, our speed in relation to the ground 
is twice the speed of the outward half of 
the journey. The sun is pleasantly warming, 
and I look towards it gratefully. A few small 
marks, which may or may not be sun-spots, 
nicker across its face. To get an easier view 
I draw my goggles, the smoke-tinted glasses 
of which allow me to look at the glare with- 
out blinking. In a few seconds I am able 
to recognise the spots as distant aeroplanes 
moving in our direction. Probably they are 
the formation that we encountered on the 
way to Passementerie. Their object in keep- 
ing between us and the sun is to remain 



132 THE FLYING ACE 

unobserved with the help of the blinding 
stream of light, which throws a haze around 
them. I call the pilot's attention to the 
scouts, and yet again we fade into the clouds. 
This time, with the sixty-mile wind as our 
friend, there is no need to remain hidden for 
long. Quite soon we shall have to descend 
to look at Pluspres, the most dangerous point 
on the round. 

When we take another look at earth I 
find that the pilot has been exact in timing 
our arrival at the important Boche base — 
too exact, indeed, for we find ourselves di- 
rectly over the centre of the town. Only 
somebody who has been Archied from Plus- 
pres can realise what it means to fly right 
over the stronghold at four thousand feet. 
The advanced lines of communication that 
stretch westward to the Arras-Peronne front 
all hinge on Pluspres, and for this reason it 
often shows activity of interest to the aero- 
plane observer and his masters. The Ger- 
mans are therefore highly annoyed when 
British aircraft arrive on a tour of inspection. 
To voice their indignation they have concen- 
trated many anti-aircraft guns around the 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 133 

town. What is worse, the Archie fire at 
Pluspres is more accurate than at any other 
point away from the actual front, as witness 
the close bracket formed by the sighting 
shots that greet our solitary bus. 

From a hasty glance at the station and 
railway lines, while we slip away to another 
level, I gather that many trains and much 
rolling stock are to be bagged. The work 
will have to be done under serious difficulties 
in the shape of beastly black bursts and the 
repeated changes of direction necessary to 
dodge them. We bank sharply, side-slip, lose 
height, regain it, and perform other erratic 
evolutions likely to spoil the gunners' aim; 
but the area is so closely sprinkled by shells 
that, to whatever point the machine swerves, 
we always hear the menacing report of burst- 
ing H.E. 

It is no easy matter to observe accurately 
while in my present condition of "wind up," 
created by the coughing of Archie. I lean 
over to count the stationary trucks in the 
sidings. "Wouff, wouff, wouff" interrupts 
Archie from a spot deafeningly near; and I 
withdraw into "the office," otherwise the ob- 



134 THE FLYING ACE 

server's cockpit. Follows a short lull, during 
which I make another attempt to count the 
abnormal amount of rolling stock. "Wouff — 
Hs — sss!" shrieks another shell, as it throws 
a large H.E. splinter past our tail. Again 
I put my head in the office. I write down 
an approximate estimate of the number of 
trucks, and no longer attempt to sort them 
out, so many to a potential train. A hunt 
over the railway system reveals no fewer 
than twelve trains. These I pencil-point on 
my map, as far as I am able to locate them. 

A massed collection of vehicles remain sta- 
tionary in what must be either a large square 
or the market-place. I attempt to count 
them, but am stopped by a report louder 
than any of the preceding ones. Next in- 
stant I find myself pressed tightly against 
the seat. The whole of the machine is lifted 
about a hundred feet by the compression 
from a shell that has exploded a few yards 
beneath our under-carriage. I begin to won- 
der whether all our troubles have been swept 
away by a direct hit; but an examination of 
the machine shows no damage beyond a 
couple of rents in the fabric of the fuselage. 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 135 

That finishes my observation work for the 
moment. Not with a court-martial as the 
only alternative could I carry on the job 
until we have left Archie's inferno of fright- 
fulness. The flight-commander is of the 
same mind, and we nose into the clouds, 
pursued to the last by the insistent smoke- 
puffs. 

When the bus is once again flying between 
sky and cloud, we begin to feel more at 
home. No other craft come within range of 
vision, so that without interruption we reach 
Ancoin, the fourth railway junction to be 
spied upon. The rolling stock there is scarcely 
enough for two train-loads, and no active 
trains can be spotted. We hover above the 
town for a minute, and then leave for Bois- 
lens. 

The machine now points westward and 
homeward, and thus has the full benefit of 
the wind, which accelerates our ground speed 
to about a hundred and fifty miles an hour. 
The gods take it into their heads to be kind, 
for we are not obliged to descend through 
the clouds over Boislens, as the region can 
be seen plainly through a gap large enough 



136 THE FLYING ACE 

to let me count the U.S. and note that a 
train, with steam up, stands in the station. 

As Boislens is the last town mentioned by 
the H.Q. people who mapped out the recon- 
naissance, the job is all but completed. Yet 
twelve miles still separate us from the 
nearest bend of the trench line, and a twelve- 
mile area contains plenty of room for a fight. 
Since the open atmosphere shows no warn- 
ing of an attack, I look closely toward the 
sun — for a fast scout will often try to sur- 
prise a two-seater by approaching between 
its quarry and the sun. 

At first I am conscious of nothing but a 
strong glare; but when my goggled eyes be- 
come accustomed to the brightness, I see, 
or imagine I see, an indistinct oblong object 
surrounded by haze. I turn away for a 
second to avoid the oppressive light. On 
seeking the sun again I find the faint oblong 
more pronounced. For one instant it devi- 
ates from the straight line between our bus 
and the sun, and I then recognise it as an 
aeroplane. I also discover that a second 
machine is hovering two thousand feet above 
the first. 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 137 

The chief hobby of the flight-commander 
is to seek a scrap. Immediately I make 
known to him the presence of hostile craft 
he tests his gun in readiness for a fight. 
Knowing by experience that if he starts 
manoeuvring round a Hun he will not break 
away while there is the slightest chance of a 
victory, I remind him, by means of a note- 
book leaf, that since our job is a reconnais- 
sance, the R.F.C. law is to return quickly 
with our more or less valuable information, 
and to abstain from such luxuries as unnec- 
sary fights, unless a chance can be seized 
over British ground. Although he does not 
seem too pleased at the reminder he puts 
down the nose of the machine, so as to cross 
the lines in the shortest possible time. 

The first Hun scout continues the dive to 
within three hundred yards, at which range 
I fire a few short bursts, by way of an an- 
nouncement to the Boche that we are ready 
for him and protected from the rear. He 
flattens out and sits behind our tail at a 
respectful distance, until the second scout 
has joined him. The two separate and pre- 
pare to swoop down one from each side. 



138 THE FLYING ACE 

But we are now passing the trenches, and 
just as one of our attackers begins to dive, 
a formation of de Havilands (British pusher 
scouts) arrives to investigate. The second 
Boche plants himself between us and the 
new-comers, while his companion continues 
to near until he is a hundred and fifty yards 
from us. At this range I rattle through the 
rest of the ammunition drum, and the Hun 
swerves aside. We then recognise the ma- 
chine as an Albatross scout or "German 
spad," a most successful type that only en- 
tered the lists a fortnight beforehand. Find- 
ing that they now have to reckon with five 
de Havilands, the two Huns turn sharply 
and race eastward, their superior speed sav- 
ing them from pursuit. 

We pass through the clouds for the last 
time on the trip, and fly home very soberly, 
while I piece together my hurried notes. 
The Squadron Commander meets us in the 
aerodrome with congratulations and a desire 
for information. 

"Seen anything?" he asks. 

"Fourteen trains and some M.T.," I 
reply. 



A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 139 

"And a few thousand clouds," adds the 
flight-commander. 

By the time I have returned from the 
delivery of my report at G.H.Q., the wing 
office has sent orders that we are to receive 
a mild censure for carrying out a reconnais- 
sance with only one machine. The Squad- 
ron Commander grins as he delivers the 
reproof, so that we do not feel altogether 
crushed. 

"Don't do it again," he concludes. 

As we have not the least desire to do it 
again, the order is likely to be obeyed. 



CHAPTER VII. 

ENDS AND ODDS. 

As a highly irresponsible prophet I am con- 
vinced that towards the end of the war 
hostilities in the air will become as decisive 
as hostilities on land or sea. An obvious 
corollary is that the how and when of peace's 
coming must be greatly influenced by the 
respective progress, during the next two 
years, of the belligerents' flying services. 

This view is far less fantastic than the 
whirlwind development of war-flying wit- 
nessed by all of us since 1914. Indeed, to 
anybody with a little imagination and some 
knowledge of what is in preparation among 
the designers and inventors of various coun- 
tries, that statement would seem more self- 
evident than extreme. Even the average 
spectator of aeronautical advance in the past 
three years must see that if anything like 
the same rate of growth be maintained, by 
the end of 1918 aircraft numbered in tens 
of thousands and with extraordinary capa- 

140 



ENDS AND ODDS 141 

cities for speed, climb, and attack will make 
life a burden to ground troops, compromise 
lines of communication, cause repeated havoc 
to factories and strongholds, and promote 
loss of balance among whatever civilian pop- 
ulations come within range of their activity. 
To emphasise the startling nature of aero- 
nautical expansion — past, present, and future 
— let us trace briefly the progress of the 
British Flying Corps from pre-war conditions 
to their present state of high efficiency. When 
the Haldane-Asquith brotherhood were caught 
napping, the Flying Corps possessed a hun- 
dred odd (very odd) aeroplanes, engined by 
the unreliable Gnome and the low-powered 
Renault. Fortunately it also possessed some 
very able officers, and these succeeded at the 
outset in making good use of doubtful ma- 
terial. One result of the necessary recon- 
struction was that a large section of the 
original corps seceded to the Navy and the 
remainder came under direct control of the 
Army. The Royal Naval Air Service began 
to specialise in bomb raids, while the Royal 
Flying Corps (Military Wing) sent whatever 
machines it could lay hands on to join the 



142 THE FLYING ACE 

old conteniptibles in France. Both services 
began to increase in size and importance at 
break-neck speed. 

The rapid expansion of the R.N.A.S. al- 
lowed for a heavy surplus of men and ma- 
chines beyond the supply necessary for the 
purely naval branch of the service. From 
this force a number of squadrons went to 
the Dardanelles, Africa, the Tigris, and other 
subsidiary theatres of war; and an important 
base was established at Dunkirk, whence 
countless air attacks were made on all mili- 
tary centres in Belgium. Many more R.N. 
A.S. squadrons, well provided with trained 
pilots and good machines, patrolled the East 
Coast while waiting for an opportunity of 
active service. This came early in the pres- 
ent year, when, under the wise supervision 
of the Air Board, the section of the Naval Air 
Service not concerned with naval matters 
was brought into close touch with the Royal 
Flying Corps, after it had pursued a lone 
trail for two years. The Flying Corps units 
on the Western Front and elsewhere are now 
splendidly backed by help from the sister 
service. For the present purpose, therefore, 



ENDS AND ODDS 143 

the military efforts of the R.N.A.S. can be 
included with those of the R.F.C., after a 
tribute has been paid to the bombing offen- 
sives for which the Naval Air Service has 
always been famous, from early exploits with 
distant objectives such as Cuxhaven and 
Friedrichshafen to this year's successful at- 
tacks on German munition works, in con- 
junction with the French, and the countless 
trips from Dunkirk that are making the Zee- 
brugge-Ostend-Bruges sector such an unhappy 
home-from-home for U-boats, destroyers, and 
raiding aircraft. Meanwhile the seaplane 
branch, about which little is heard, has 
reached a high level of efficiency. When the 
screen of secrecy is withdrawn from the 
North Sea, we shall hear very excellent sto- 
ries of what the seaplanes have accomplished 
lately in the way of scouting, chasing the 
Zeppelin, and hunting the U-boat. 

But from the nature of its purpose, the 
R.F.C. has borne the major part of our 
aerial burden during the war. In doing so, 
it has grown from a tiny band of enthusiasts 
and experimentalists to a great service which 
can challenge comparison with any other 



144 THE FLYING ACE 

branch of the Army. The history of this 
attainment is intensely interesting. 

The few dozen airmen who accompanied 
the contemptible little army on the retreat 
from Mons had no precedents from other 
campaigns to guide them, and the some- 
what vague dictum that their function was 
to gather information had to be interpreted 
by pioneer methods. These were satisfac- 
tory under the then conditions of warfare, 
inasmuch as valuable information certainly 
was gathered during the retreat, when a 
blind move would have meant disaster, — 
how valuable only the chiefs of the hard- 
pressed force can say. This involved more 
than the average difficulties, for as the battle 
swayed back towards Paris new landing- 
grounds had to be sought, and temporary 
aerodromes improvised every few days. The 
small collection of serviceable aeroplanes 
again justified themselves at the decisive 
stand in the Marne and Ourcq basin, where 
immediate reports of the enemy concentra- 
tions were essential to victory. Again, after 
the Hun had been swept across the Aisne 
and was stretching north-eastward tentacles 



ENDS AND ODDS 145 

to clutch as much of the coast as was con- 
sonant with an unbroken line, the aerial 
spying out of the succeeding phases of re- 
tirement was of great service. Indeed, ten- 
tative though it was, the work of the British, 
French, and German machines before the 
advent of trench warfare proved how greatly- 
air reconnaissance would alter the whole per- 
spective of an open country campaign. 

After the long barrier of trenches dead- 
locked the chances of extended movement 
and opened the dreary months of more or 
less stationary warfare, the R.F.C. organi- 
sation in France had time and space for 
self-development. Aerodromes were selected 
and erected, the older and less satisfactory 
types of machine were replaced by the stable 
B.E 2 .C, the active service squadrons were 
reconstructed and multiplied. 

To the observation of what happened be- 
hind the actual front was added the mapping 
of the enemy's intricate trench-mosaic. For 
a month or two this was accomplished by 
the methodical sketches of a few observers. 
It was an exceedingly difficult task to trace 
every trench and sap and to pattern the 



146 THE FLYING ACE 

network from a height of about 2000 feet, 
but the infantry found small ground for 
dissatisfaction as regards the accuracy or 
completeness of the observers' drawings. 
Then came the introduction of aerial photog- 
raphy on a large scale, and w T ith it a com- 
plete bird's-eye plan of all enemy defence 
works, pieced together from a series of over- 
head snapshots that reproduced the com- 
plete trench-line, even to such details as 
barbed wire. By the infallible revelations of 
the camera, untricked by camouflage, con- 
cealed gun positions were spotted for the 
benefit of our artillery, and highly useful in- 
formation about likely objectives was pro- 
vided for the bombing craft. 

The frequent bombing of German supply 
centres in Belgium and North France came 
into being with the development of aerial 
photography. Owing to the difficulty of cor- 
rect aim, before the advent of modern bomb- 
sights, all the early raids were carried out 
from a low altitude, sometimes from only a 
few hundred feet. For every purpose, more- 
over, low altitudes were the rule in the earlier 
months of the war, as most of the machines 



ENDS AND ODDS 147 

would not climb above 4000-7000 feet. Much 
of the observation was performed at some- 
thing between 1000 and 2000 feet, so that 
aircraft often returned with a hundred or so 
bullet-holes in them. 

Meanwhile the important work of artillery 
spotting was being developed. New systems 
of co-operation between artillery and aero- 
planes were devised, tested, and improved. 
At first lamps or Very's lights were used to 
signal code-corrections, but these were soon 
replaced by wireless transmission from the 
observation machine. Targets which could 
not be ranged on through ground observa- 
tion posts became targets no longer, after one 
shoot ranged from the air. As the number 
of available aircraft increased, so did the 
amount of observation for the guns, until 
finally the entire front opposite the British 
was registered for bombardment and divided 
into sections covered by specified artillery 
machines. 

Aerial fighting, now so essential and scien- 
tific a branch of modern war, was rudimen- 
tary in 1914. Pilots and observers of the 
original Flying Corps carried revolvers, and 



148 THE FLYING ACE 

many observers also equipped themselves with 
rifles, but the aeroplanes were not fitted with 
machine-guns. Such scraps as there were 
consisted of one machine manoeuvring round 
an opponent at close quarters for the chance 
of a well-aimed shot. Under these circum- 
stances to "bring down" or "drive down out 
of control" an enemy was extremely difficult, 
though a very gallant officer, since killed in 
action, once killed two German pilots within 
five minutes with his revolver. 

Soon the possibilities of aerial machine- 
guns were quickly recognised. The R.F.C. 
adopted the Lewis, which from the points 
of view of lightness and handiness was well 
suited for aircraft, and the German airmen 
countered with a modified Hotchkiss and 
other types. 

But the stable observation machines, while 
excellent for reconnaissance and artillery spot- 
ting, allowed their crews only a small arc of 
fire, and not until the German single-seater 
scouts and our Bristol scout, then a com- 
paratively fast machine, appeared on the 
western front in the spring of 1915 did the 
destruction of aeroplanes become an everyday 



ENDS AND ODDS 149 

occurrence. With the introduction of scouts 
for escort and protective duties came forma- 
tion flying and concerted attack. 

Fighting craft continued to increase in 
speed and numbers. As the struggle became 
more and more intense, so did the scene of it 
move higher and higher, prodded by an ever- 
growing capacity for climb and the ever- 
growing menace of the anti-aircraft guns. 
The average air battle of to-day begins at 
an altitude between 12,000 and 20,000 feet. 

The conflict for mechanical superiority has 
had its ebb and flow, and consequently its 
proportional casualties; but the British have 
never once been turned from their programme 
of observation. There have been critical 
times, as for example when the Fokker 
scourge of late 1915 and early 1916 laid low 
so many of the observation craft. But the 
Fokkers were satisfactorily dealt with by the 
de Haviland and the F.E 8 . pusher scouts and 
the F.E. "battleplane," as the newspapers of 
the period delighted to call it. Next the 
pendulum swung towards the British, who 
kept the whip hand during the summer and 
autumn of last year. Even when the Boche 



150 THE FLYING ACE 

again made a bid for ascendancy with the 
Halberstadt, the Roland, the improved L. 
V.G., and the modern Albatross scout, the 
Flying Corps organisation kept the situation 
well in hand, though the supply of faster 
machines was complicated by the claims of 
the R.N.A.S. squadrons in England. 

Throughout the Somme Push we were able 
to maintain that aerial superiority without 
which a great offensive cannot succeed. This 
was partly the result of good organisation 
and partly of the fighting capabilities of the 
men who piloted the Sopwith, the Nieuport, 
the de Haviland, the F.E., and other 1916 
planes w T hich were continually at grips with 
the Hun. The German airmen, with their 
"travelling circuses" of twelve to fifteen fast 
scouts, once more had an innings in the spring 
of the current year, and the older types of 
British machine were hard put to it to carry 
through their regular work. Then came the 
great day when scores of our new machines, 
husbanded for the occasion, engaged the 
enemy hell-for-leather at his own place in 
the air. An untiring offensive was continued 
by our patrols, and the temporary supremacy 



ENDS AND ODDS 151 

passed into British hands, where it very 
definitely remains, and where, if the shadows 
of coming events and the silhouettes of com- 
ing machines materialise, it is likely to re- 
main. 

Judged on a basis of losses, the unceasing 
struggle between aeroplane and aeroplane 
would seem to have been fairly equal, though 
it must be remembered that three-quarters 
of the fighting has had for its milieu the 
atmosphere above enemy territory. Judged 
on a basis of the maintenance of adequate 
observation, which is the primary object of 
aerial attack and defence, the British have 
won consistently. At no time has the R.F.C. 
been obliged to modify its duties of recon- 
naissance, artillery spotting, photography, or 
co-operation with advancing infantry, which 
was introduced successfully last summer. On 
the contrary, each of these functions, together 
with bombing and "ground stunts" from low 
altitudes, has swollen to an abnormal extent. 

An idea of the vastness of our aerial effort 
on the British front in France can be gath- 
ered from the R.F.C. work performed on a 
typical "big push" day. 



152 THE FLYING ACE 

Throughout the night preceding an ad- 
vance, several parties, laden with heavy 
bombs, steer by compass to Hun headquar- 
ters or other objectives, and return no 
longer laden with bombs. The first streak 
of daylight is the herald of an exodus from 
west to east of many score fighting craft. 
These cross the lines, hover among the 
Archie bursts, and drive back or down all 
black-crossed strangers within sight. Some 
of them go farther afield and attack the 
Boche above his own aerodromes. Such 
enemy craft as manage to take the air with- 
out meeting trouble from the advanced of- 
fensive patrols are tackled by the scouts 
near the lines. The few that travel still 
farther eastward with the intention of swoop- 
ing on our observation machines, or of them- 
selves gathering information, receive a hearty 
welcome from our defensive patrols. 

The British two-seaters are thus free to 
direct the artillery, link the attacking in- 
fantry with headquarters, and spy out the 
land. As soon as the early morning light 
allows, a host of planes will be darting back- 
ward and forward over the trench-line as 



ENDS AND ODDS 153 

they guide the terrific bombardment prelim- 
inary to an attack. Other machines are 
searching for new emplacements and signs of 
preparation behind the enemy trenches. Sev- 
eral formations carry out tactical reconnais- 
sances around an area stretching from the 
lines to a radius twenty miles east of them, 
and further parties perform strategic recon- 
naissance by covering the railways, roads, 
and canals that link the actual front with 
bases thirty to ninety miles behind it. When, 
at a scheduled time, the infantry emerge 
over the top behind a curtain of shells, the 
contact patrol buses follow their doings, in- 
form the gunners of any necessary modifi- 
cations in the barrage, or of some trouble- 
some nest of machine-guns, note the positions 
held by the attackers, collect signals from 
the battalion headquarters, and by means of 
message bags dropped over brigade head- 
quarters report progress to the staff. If, 
later, a further advance be made, the low- 
flying contact machines again play their part 
of mothering the infantry. 

Machines fitted with cameras photograph 
every inch of the defences improvised by 



154 THE FLYING ACE 

the enemy, and, as insurance against being 
caught unprepared by a counter-attack, an 
immediate warning of whatever movement is 
in evidence on the lines of communication 
will be supplied by the reconnaissance ob- 
servers. Under the direction of artillery 
squadrons the guns pound the new Boche 
front line and range on troublesome bat- 
teries. 

The bombing craft are responsible for on- 
slaughts on railways, supply depots, garrison 
towns, headquarters, aerodromes, and chance 
targets. Other guerilla work is done by 
craft which, from a height of anything under 
a thousand feet, machine-gun whatever worth- 
while objects they spot. A column of troops 
on the march, transport, ammunition wag- 
gons, a train, a stray motor-car — all these are 
greeted joyfully by the pilots who specialise 
in ground stunts. And at every hour of day- 
light the scouts and fighting two-seaters pro- 
tect the remainder of the R.F.C. by engaging 
all Huns who take to the air. 

Doubtless, when sunset has brought the 
roving birds back to their nest, there will be 
a few "missing"; but this, part of the day's 



ENDS AND ODDS 155 

work, is a small enough sacrifice for the gen- 
eral achievement — the staff supplied with 
quick and accurate information, a hundred 
or two Boche batteries silenced, important 
works destroyed, enemy communications im- 
peded, a dozen or so black-crossed aeroplanes 
brought down, valuable photographs and re- 
ports obtained, and the ground-Hun of every 
species harried. 

The German Flying Corps cannot claim to 
perform anything like the same amount of 
aerial observation as its British counterpart. 
It is mainly occupied in fighting air battles 
and hampering the foreign machines that 
spy on their army. To say that the German 
machines are barred altogether from recon- 
naissance and artillery direction would be 
exaggeration, but not wild exaggeration. 
Seldom can an enemy plane call and correct 
artillery fire for longer than half an hour. 
From time to time a fast machine makes a 
reconnaissance tour at a great height, and 
from time to time others dart across the 
lines for photography, or to search for gun 
positions. An appreciable proportion of these 
do not return. Four-fifths of the Hun bomb 



156 THE FLYING ACE 

raids behind our front take place at night- 
time, when comparative freedom from at- 
tack is balanced by impossibility of accurate 
aim. Apart from these spasmodic activities, 
the German pilots concern themselves en- 
tirely with attempts to prevent allied obser- 
vation. They have never yet succeeded, even 
during the periods of their nearest approach 
to the so-called "mastery of the air," and 
probably they never will succeed. The ad- 
vantages attendant upon a maintenance of 
thorough observation, while whittling down 
the enemy's to a minimum, cannot be over- 
estimated. 

To determine how much credit for the 
brilliant achievement I have tried to out- 
line belongs to the skill and adaptability of 
British airmen, and how much to successful 
organisation, would be difficult and rather 
unnecessary. But it is obvious that those 
who guided the R.F.C. from neglected be- 
ginnings to the status of a great air service 
had a tremendous task. Only the technical 
mind can realise all that it has involved in the 
production of trained personnel, aeroplanes, 
engines, aircraft depots, aerodromes, wireless 



ENDS AND ODDS 157 

equipment, photographic workshops and ac- 
cessories, bombs, and a thousand and one 
other necessaries. 

Many thousand pilots have been trained 
in all the branches of war flying. The num- 
ber of squadrons now in France would sur- 
prise the layman if one were allowed to make 
it public; while other squadrons have done 
excellent work in Macedonia, Egypt, Meso- 
potamia, East Africa, and elsewhere. Men- 
tion must also be made of the Home Defence 
groups, but for which wholesale Zeppelin 
raids on the country would be of common 
occurrence. 

How to make best use of the vast per- 
sonnel in France is the business of the staff, 
who link the fighting members of the corps 
with the Intelligence Department and the 
rest of the Army in the field. To them has 
fallen the introduction and development of 
the various functions of war aircraft, besides 
the planning of bomb raids and concerted 
aerial offensives. On the equipment side 
there is an enormous wastage to be dealt 
with, and consequently a constant cross- 
Channel interchange of machines. The 



158 THE FLYING ACE 

amount of necessary replacement is made 
specially heavy by the short life of effective 
craft. A type of machine is good for a few 
months of active service, just holds its own 
for a few more, and then becomes obsolete 
except as a training bus. To surpass or even 
keep pace with the Boche Flying Corps on 
the mechanical side, it has been necessary 
for the supply department to do a brisk 
trade in new ideas and designs, experiment, 
improvement, and scrapping. 

Although free-lance attacks by airmen on 
whatever takes their fancy down below are 
now common enough, they were unknown 
little over a year ago. Their early history is 
bound up with the introduction of contact 
patrols, or co-operation with advancing in- 
fantry. Previous to the Somme Push of 
1916, communication during an attack be- 
tween infantry on the one hand and the guns 
and various headquarters on Qie other was a 
difficult problem. A battalion would go over 
the top and disappear into the enemy lines. 
It might have urgent need of reinforcements 
or of a concentrated fire on some dangerous 
spot. Yet to make known its wants quickly 



ENDS AND ODDS 159 

was by no means easy, for the telephone 
wires were usually cut, carrier-pigeons went 
astray, and runners were liable to be shot. 
When the British introduced the "creeping 
barrage" of artillery pounding, which moved 
a little ahead of the infantry and curtained 
them from machine-gun and rifle fire, the 
need for rapid communication was greater 
than ever. Exultant attackers would rush 
forward in advance of the programmed speed 
and be mown by their own barrage. 

Credit for the trial use of the aeroplane to 
link artillery with infantry belongs to the Brit- 
ish, though the French at Verdun first brought 
the method to practical success. We then 
developed the idea on the Somme with nota- 
ble results. Stable machines, equipped with 
wireless transmitters and Klaxton horns, flew 
a low height over detailed sectors, observed 
all developments, signalled back guidance for 
the barrage, and by means of message bags 
supplied headquarters with valuable informa- 
tion. Besides its main purpose of mothering 
the infantry, the new system of contact 
patrols was found to be useful in dealing with 
enemy movements directly behind the front 



160 THE FLYING ACE 

line. If the bud of a counter-attack appeared, 
aeroplanes would call upon the guns to nip 
it before it had time to blossom. 

Last September we of the fighting and 
reconnaissance squadrons began to hear in- 
teresting yarns from the corps squadrons 
that specialised in contact patrols. An ob- 
server saved two battalions from extinction 
by calling up reinforcements in the nick of 
time. When two tanks slithered around the 
ruins of Courcelette two hours before the 
razed village was stormed, the men in the 
trenches would have known nothing of this 
unexpected advance-guard but for a contact 
machine. The pilot and observer of another 
bus saw two tanks converging eastward at 
either end of a troublesome Boche trench. A 
German officer, peering round a corner, drew 
back quickly when he found one of the new 
steel beasts advancing. He hurried to an 
observation post round a bend in the lines. 
Arrived there, he got the shock of his life 
when he found a second metal monster 
waddling towards liim. Alarmed and un- 
nerved, he probably ordered a retirement, 
for the trench was evacuated immediately. 



ENDS AND ODDS 161 

The observer in a watching aeroplane then 
delivered a much condensed synopsis of the 
comedy to battalion headquarters, and the 
trench was peacefully occupied. 

Inevitably the nearness of the enemy to 
machines hovering over a given area bred 
in the airmen concerned a desire to swoop 
down and panic the Boche. Movement in 
a hostile trench was irresistible, and many 
a pilot shot off his engine, glided across 
the lines, and let his observer spray with 
bullets the home of the Hun. The intro- 
duction of such tactics was not planned be- 
forehand and carried out to order. It was 
the outcome of a new set of circumstances 
and almost unconscious enterprise. More 
than any other aspect of war flying, it is, I 
believe, this imminence of the unusual that 
makes the average war pilot swear greatly 
by his job, while other soldiers temper their 
good work with grousing. His actions are 
influenced by the knowledge that somewhere, 
behind a ridge of clouds, in the nothingness 
of space, on the patchwork ground , the True 
Romance has hidden a new experience, which 
can only be found by the venturer with alert 



162 THE FLYING ACE 

vision, a quick brain, and a fine instinct for 
opportunity. 

The free-lance ground stunt, then, had its 
origin in the initiative of a few pilots who 
recognised a chance, took it, and thus opened 
yet another branch in the huge departmental 
store of aerial tactics. The exploits of these 
pioneers were sealed with the stamp of offi- 
cial approval, and airmen on contact patrol 
have since been encouraged to relieve 
boredom by joyous pounces on Brother 
Boche. 

The star turn last year was performed by 
a British machine that captured a trench. 
The pilot guided it above the said trench 
for some hundred yards, while the observer 
emptied drum after drum of ammunition at 
the crouching Germans. A headlong scram- 
ble was followed by the appearance of an 
irregular line of white billowings. The enemy 
were waving handkerchiefs and strips of ma- 
terial in token of surrender! Whereupon our 
infantry were signalled to take possession, 
which they did. Don't shrug your shoulders, 
friend the reader, and say: "Quite a good 
story, but tall, very tall." The facts were 



ENDS AND ODDS 163 

related in the R.F.C. section of 'Comic Cuts,' 
otherwise G.H.Q. summary of work. 

Fighting squadrons soon caught the craze 
for ground stunts and carried it well beyond 
the lines. One machine chased a train for 
miles a few hundred feet above, derailed it, 
and spat bullets at the lame coaches until 
driven off by enemy craft. Another made 
what was evidently an inspection of troops 
by some Boche Olympian look like the riot- 
ous disorder of a Futurist painting. A pilot 
with some bombs to spare spiralled down over 
a train, dropped the first bomb on the engine, 
and the second, third, fourth, and fifth on the 
soldiers who scurried from the carriages. 
When a detachment of cavalry really did 
break through for once in a while, it was 
startled to find an aerial vanguard. A frolic- 
some biplane darted ahead, pointed out po- 
sitions worthy of attack, and created a 
diversion with Lewis gun fire. 

At the end of a three-hour offensive patrol 
my pilot would often descend our bus to 
less than a thousand feet, cross No Man's 
Land again, and zigzag over the enemy 
trenches, where we disposed of surplus am- 



164 THE FLYING ACE 

munition to good purpose. On cloudy days, 
with the pretext of testing a new machine 
or a gun, he would fly just above the clouds, 
until we were east of the lines, then turn 
round and dive suddenly through the cloud- 
screen in the direction of the Boche positions, 
firing his front gun as we dropped. The turn 
of my rear gun came afterwards when the 
pilot flattened out and steered northward 
along the wrong border of No Man's Land. 
Once, when flying very low, we looked into a 
wide trench and saw a group of tiny figures 
make confused attempts to take cover, tum- 
bling over each other the while in ludicrous 
confusion. 

I remember a notable first trip across the 
lines made by a pilot who had just arrived 
from England. He had been sent up to 
have a look at the battle line, with an old- 
hand observer and instructions not to cross 
the trenches. However, he went too far 
east, and found himself ringed by Archie 
bursts. These did not have their customary 
effect on a novice of inspiring mortal funk, 
for the new pilot became furiously angry 
and flew Berserk. He dived towards Ba- 



ENDS AND ODDS 165 

paume, dropped unscathed through the bar- 
rage of anti-aircraft shelling for which this 
stronghold was at the time notorious, fired a 
hundred rounds into the town square from a 
height of 800 feet, and raced back over the 
Bapaume-Pozieres road pursued by flaming 
"onion" rockets. The observer recovered 
from his surprise in time to loose off a drum 
of ammunition at Bapaume, and three more 
along the straight road to the front line, pay- 
ing special attention to the village of Le 
Sars. 

It was above this village that I once was 
guilty of communicating with the enemy. 
During a three-hours' offensive patrol around 
the triangle— Bapaume-Mossy-Face Wood- 
Epehy — we had not seen a single Hun ma- 
chine. Low clouds held Archie in check, and 
there was therefore small necessity to swerve 
from a straight course. Becoming bored, I 
looked at the pleasant-seeming countryside 
below, and reflected how ill its appearance 
harmonised with its merits as a dwelling- 
place, judged on the best possible evidence — 
the half-hysterical diaries found on enemy 
prisoners, the bitter outpourings anent the 



166 THE FLYING ACE 

misery of intense bombardment and slaughter, 
the ominous title "The Grave" given to the 
region by Germans who had fought there. 
An echo of light-hearted incursions into Ger- 
man literature when I was a student at a 
Boche college suggested that the opening lines 
of Schiller's "Sehnsucht" were peculiarly ap- 
posite to the state of mind of the Huns who 
dwelt by the Somme. Wishing to share my 
discovery, I wrote the verse in large block 
capitals, ready to be dropped at a convenient 
spot. I took the liberty of transposing three 
pronouns from the first person to the second, 
so as to apostrophise our Boche brethren. 
The patrol finished, my pilot spiralled down 
to within a 300-yard range of the ground and 
flew along the road past Martinpuich, while 
I pumped lead at anything that might be a 
communication trench. We sprinkled Le Sars 
with bullets, and there I threw overboard the 
quotation from a great German poet, folded 
inside an empty Very's cartridge to which I 
had attached canvas streamers. If it was 
picked up, I trust the following lines 
were not regarded merely as wordy fright- 
fulness: 



ENDS AND ODDS 1G7 

"Ach! aus dieses Thales Grlinden 
Die der kalte Nebel druckt, 
Konnt' ihr doch den Ausgang finden, 
Ach! wie ftih.lt' ihr euch begluckt!" 

Of all the tabloid tales published last year 
in R.F.C. 'Comic Cuts,' the most comic was 
that of a mist, a British bus, and a Boche 
General. The mist was troublesome; the bus, 
homeward bound after a reconnaissance, was 
flying low to keep a clear vision of the earth; 
the general was seated in his dignified car, 
after the manner of generals. The British 
pilot dived on the car, the British observer 
fired on the car, the Boche chauffeur stopped 
the car, the Boche general jumped from the 
car. Chauffeur and general rushed through a 
field into a wood; pilot and observer went 
home and laughed. 

Thus far the facts are taken from the 
official report. An appropriate supplement 
was the rumour, which deserved to be true 
but possibly wasn't, that the observer turned 
in the direction of the vanished general and 
plagiarised George Robey with a shout into 
the unhearing air: "Cheeriho old thing, here's 
a go, my hat, priceless!" 



168 THE FLYING ACE 

So much for past accomplishment. The 
future of war flying, like all futures, is prob- 
lematical; but having regard to our present 
unquestionable superiority in the air, and to 
the blend of sane imagination and practical 
ability now noticeable as an asset of the 
flying services directorate, one can hazard the 
statement that in the extended aerial war 
which is coming the R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. 
will nearly satisfy the most exacting of 
critics. 

The tendency is toward a rapid develop- 
ment of aircraft even more startling than 
that of the past. Some of the modern scout 
machines have a level speed of 130-150 miles 
an hour, and can climb more than 1000 feet 
a minute until an abnormal height is reached. 
It is certain that within a year later machines 
will travel 160, 180, and 200 miles an hour 
level. Quantity as well as quality is on the 
up-grade, so that the power to strike hard 
and far will increase enormously, helped by 
heavier armament, highly destructive bombs, 
and more accurate bomb-sights. 

And, above all, we shall see a great ex- 
tension of ground attacks by air cavalry. 



ENDS AND ODDS 169 

The production of a machine specially adapted 
for this purpose, armoured underneath, per- 
haps, and carrying guns that fire downward 
through the fuselage, is worth the careful at- 
tention of aeroplane designers. It is probable 
that with the reappearance of extended mili- 
tary movement on the western front, as must 
happen sooner or later, continuous guerilla 
tactics by hundreds of low-flying aeroplanes 
may well turn an orderly retirement into a 
disorderly rout. 

When and if a push of pushes really breaks 
the German line, I fully expect that we of 
the air service will lead the armies of pursuit 
and make ourselves a pluperfect nuisance to 
the armies of retreat. Temporary second lieu- 
tenants may yet be given the chance to drive 
a Boche general or two into the woods, or 
even — who can limit the freaks of Providence? 
— plug down shots at the Limelight Kaiser 
himself, as he tours behind the front in his 
favourite role of Bombastes Furioso. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THE DAILY ROUND. 

During a bout of active service one happens 
upon experiences that, though they make no 
immediate impression, become more promi- 
nent than the most dramatic events, when 
the period is past and can be viewed in 
retrospect. Sub-consciousness, wiser than the 
surface brain, penetrates to the inner sanc- 
tuary of true values, photographs something 
typical of war's many aspects, places the 
negative in the dark room of memory, and 
fades into inertia until again called upon to 
act as arbiter of significance for everyday 
instinct. Not till long later, when released 
from the tension of danger and abnormal 
endeavour, is one's mind free to develop the 
negative and produce a clear photograph. 
The sensitive freshness of the print then ob- 
tained is likely to last a lifetime. I leave 
a detailed explanation of this process to the 
comic people who claim acquaintance with 
the psychology of the immortal soul; for my 

170 



THE DAILY ROUND 171 

part, I am content to remain a collector of 
such mental photographs. 

A few examples of the sub-conscious im- 
pressions gathered during my last year's term 
at the Front are the curious smile of a dead 
observer as we lifted his body from a bullet- 
plugged machine; the shrieking of the wires 
whenever we dived on Hun aircraft; a tree 
trunk falling on a howitzer; a line of narrow- 
nosed buses, with heavy bombs fitted under 
the lower planes, ready to leave for their 
objective; the ghostliness of Ypres as we 
hovered seven thousand feet above its ruins; 
a certain riotous evening when eight of the 
party of fourteen ate their last dinner on 
earth; a severe reprimand delivered to me 
by a meticulous colonel, after I returned 
from a long reconnaissance that included four 
air flights, for the crime of not having fas- 
tened my collar before arrival on the aero- 
drome at 5 a.m.; a broken Boche aeroplane 
falling in two segments at a height of ten 
thousand feet; the breathless moments at a 
Base hospital when the surgeon-in -charge ex- 
amined new casualties to decide which of 
them were to be sent across the Channel; 



172 THE FLYING ACE 

and clearest of all, the brown-faced infantry 
marching back to the trenches from our village. 
A muddy, unkempt battalion would arrive 
in search of rest and recuperation. It dis- 
tributed itself among houses, cottages, and 
barns, while the Frenchwomen looked sweet 
or sour according to their diverse tempers, 
and whether they kept estaminets, sold farm 
produce, had husbands labas, or merely feared 
for their poultry and the cleanliness of their 
homes. Next day the exhausted men would 
reappear as beaux sabreurs with bright but- 
tons, clean if discoloured tunics, and a jaunty, 
untired walk. The drum and fife band prac- 
tised in the tiny square before an enthusias- 
tic audience of gamins. Late every afternoon 
the aerodrome was certain to be crowded by 
inquisitive Tommies, whose peculiar joy it 
was to watch a homing party land and ex- 
amine the machines for bullet marks. The 
officers made overtures on the subject of joy- 
rides, or discussed transfers to the Flying 
Corps. Interchange of mess courtesies took 
place, attended by a brisk business in yarns 
and a mutual appreciation of the work done 
by R.F.C. and infantry. 



THE DAILY ROUND 173 

Then, one fine day, the drum and fife 
rhythm of "A Long, Long Trail" would 
draw us to the roadside, while our friends 
marched away to Mouquet Farm, or Beau- 
mont Hamel, or Hohenzollern Redoubt, or 
some other point of the changing front that 
the Hun was about to lose. And as they left, 
the men were mostly silent; though they 
looked debonair enough with their swinging 
quickstep and easy carriage, and their frying- 
pan hats set at all sorts of rakish angles. 
Their officers would nod, glance enviously at 
the apple-trees and tents in our pleasant 
little orchard, and pass on to the front of 
the Front, and all that this implied in the 
way of mud, vermin, sudden death, sus- 
pense, and damnable discomfort. And re- 
turning to the orchard we offered selfish 
thanks to Providence in that we were not as 
the millions who hold and take trenches. 

The flying officer in France has, indeed, 
matter for self-congratulation when com- 
pared with the infantry officer, as any one 
who has served in both capacities will bear 
witness. Flying over enemy country is ad- 
mittedly a strain, but each separate job only 



174 THE FLYING ACE 

lasts from two to four hours. The infantry- 
man in the front line is trailed by risk for 
the greater part of twenty-four hours daily. 
His work done, the airman returns to fixed 
quarters, good messing, a bath, plenty of 
leisure, and a real bed. The infantry officer 
lives mostly on army rations, and as often 
as not he sleeps in his muddy clothes, amid 
the noise of war, after a long shift crammed 
with uncongenial duties. As regards actual 
fighting the airman again has the advantage. 
For those with a suitable temperament there 
is tense joy in an air scrap; there is none in 
trudging along a mile of narrow communica- 
tion trench, and then, arrived at one's un- 
lovely destination, being perpetually ennuied 
by crumps and other devilries. And in the 
game of poker played with life, death, and 
the will to destroy, the airman has but to 
reckon with two marked cards — the Ace of 
Clubs, representing Boche aircraft, and the 
Knave Archibald; whereas, when the infan- 
tryman stakes his existence, he must remem- 
ber that each sleeve of the old cheat Death 
contains half a dozen cards. 

All this by way of prelude to a protest 



THE DAILY ROUND 175 

against the exaggerative ecstasies indulged in 
by many civilians when discussing the air 
services. The British pilots are competent 
and daring, but they would be the last to 
claim an undue share of war's glory. Many 
of them deserve the highest praise; but then 
so do many in all other fighting branches of 
Army and Navy. An example of what I 
mean is the reference to R.F.C. officers, dur- 
ing a Parliamentary debate, as "the super- 
heroes of the war," — a term which, for 
ungainly absurdity, would be hard to beat. 
To those who perpetrate such far-fetched 
phrases I would humbly say: "Good gentle- 
men, we are proud to have won your ap- 
proval, but for the Lord's sake don't make 
us ridiculous in the eyes of other sol- 
diers." 

Yet another asset of the airman is that 
his work provides plenty of scope for the 
individual, who in most sections of the Army 
is held on the leash of system and co-opera- 
tion. The war pilot, though subject to the 
exigencies of formation flying, can attack and 
manoeuvre as he pleases. Most of the star 
performers are individualists who concen- 



176 THE FLYING ACE 

trate on whatever methods of destroying an 
enemy best suit them. 

Albert Ball, probably the most brilliant air 
fighter of the war, was the individualist in 
excelsis. His deeds were the outcome partly 
of pluck — certainly not of luck — but mostly 
of thought, insight, experiment, and constant 
practice. His knowledge of how to use sun, 
wind, and clouds, coupled with an instinct 
for the "blind side" of whatever Hun ma- 
chine he had in view, made him a master in 
the art of approaching unobserved. Arrived 
at close quarters, he usually took up his 
favourite position under the German's tail 
before opening fire. His experience then 
taught him to anticipate any move that an 
unprepared enemy might make, and his 
quick wits how to take advantage of it. 
Last autumn, whenever the weather kept 
scout machines from their patrols but was 
not too bad for joy-flying, he would fly near 
the aerodrome and practise his pet manoeu- 
vres for hours at a time. In the early days of 
Ball's dazzling exploits his patrol leader once 
complained, after an uneventful trip, that he 
left the formation immediately it crossed the 



THE DAILY ROUND 177 

lines, and stayed away until the return jour- 
ney. Ball's explanation was that throughout 
the show he remained less than two hundred 
feet below the leader's machine, "practising 
concealment." 

The outstanding pilots of my old squadron 
were all individualists in attack, and it was 
one of my hobbies to contrast their tactics. 
C, with his blind fatalism and utter disre- 
gard of risk, would dive a machine among 
any number of Huns, so that he usually 
opened a fight with an advantage of startling 
audacity. S., another very successful leader, 
worked more in co-operation with the ma- 
chines behind him, and took care to give his 
observer every chance for effective fire. His 
close watch on the remainder of the forma- 
tion saved many a machine in difficulties 
from disaster. V., my pilot and flight-com- 
mander, was given to a quick dive at the 
enemy, a swerve aside, a recul pour mieux 
sauter, a vertical turn or two, and another 
dash to close grips from an unexpected di- 
rection, while I guarded the tail-end. 

But writing reminiscences of Umpty Squad- 
ron's early days is a melancholy business. 



178 THE FLYING ACE 

When it was first formed all the pilots were 
picked men, for the machines were the best 
British two-seaters then in existence, and 
their work throughout the autumn push was 
to be more dangerous than that of any 
squadron along the British front. The price 
we paid was that nine weeks from our arrival 
on the Somme only nine of the original thirty- 
six pilots and observers remained. Twelve 
officers flew to France with the flight to which 
I belonged. Six weeks after their first job 
over the lines I was one of the only two 
survivors. Three of the twenty-five who 
dropped out returned to England with wounds 
or other disabilities; the rest, closely followed 
by twenty of those who replaced them, went 
to Valhalla, which is half-way to heaven; or 
to Karlsruhe, which is between hell and Frei- 
burg-im-Brisgau. 

And the reward? One day, in a letter 
written by a captured Boche airman, was 
found the sentence: "The most to be feared 

of British machines is the S ." The ump- 

tieth squadron then had the only machines 
of this type in France. 

During the short period of their stay with 



THE DAILY ROUND 179 

us, the crowd of boys thus rudely snatched 
away were the gayest company imaginable; 
and, indeed, they were boys in everything 
but achievement. As a patriarch of twenty- 
four I had two more years to my discredit 
than the next oldest among the twelve mem- 
bers of our flight-mess. The youngest was 
seventeen and a half. Our Squadron Com- 
mander, one of the finest men I have met in 
or out of the army, became a lieutenant- 
colonel at twenty-five. Even he was not 
spared, being killed in a flying accident some 
months later. 

Though we were all such good friends, the 
high percentage of machines "missing" from 
our hangars made us take the abnormal 
casualties almost as a matter of course at 
the time. One said a few words in praise of 
the latest to go, and passed on to the next 
job. Not till the survivors returned home 
did they have time, away from the stress of 
war, to feel keen sorrow for the brave and 
jolly company. For some strange reason, my 
own hurt at the loss was toned down by a 
mental farewell to each of the fallen, in 
words borrowed from the song sung by an 



180 THE FLYING ACE 

old-time maker of ballads when youth left 
him: "Adieu, la tres gente compagne." 

The crowded months of the umptieth 
squadron from June to November were 
worth while for the pilots who survived. 
The only two of our then flight-commanders 
still on the active list are now commanding 
squadrons, while all the subaltern pilots have 
become flight-commanders. The observers, a 
tribe akin to Kipling's Sergeant Whatsisname, 
are as they were in the matter of rank, need- 
less to say. 

For my part, on reaching Blighty by the 
grace of God and an injured knee, I decided 
that if my unworthy neck were doomed to 
be broken, I would rather break it myself 
than let some one else have the responsibility. 
It is as a pilot, therefore, that I am about to 
serve another sentence overseas. A renewal 
of Archie's acquaintance is hardly an invit- 
ing prospect, but with a vivid recollection of 
great days with the old umptieth squadron, I 
shall not be altogether sorry to leave the 
hierarchy of home instructordom for the good- 
fellowship of active service. In a few months' 
time, after a further period of aerial outings, 



THE DAILY ROUND 181 

I hope to fill some more pages of Blackwood, 1 
subject always to the sanction of their editor, 
the bon Dieu, and the mauvais diable who 
will act as censor. Meanwhile, I will try to 
sketch the daily round of the squadron in 
which I am proud to have been an observer. 



"Quarter to five, sir, and a fine morning. 
You're wanted on the aerodrome at a quar- 
ter past." 

I sit up. A shiver, and a return beneath 
the blankets for five minutes' rumination. 
Dressing will be dashed unpleasant in the 
cold of dawn. The canvas is wet with the 
night's rain. The reconnaissance is a long 
one, and will take fully three hours. The 
air at 10,000 feet will bite hard. Must send 
a field post-card before we start. Not too 
much time, so out and on with your clothes. 
Life is wrotten. 

While dressing we analyse the weather, 
that pivot of our day-to-day existence. On 
the weather depends our work and leisure, 
our comparative risks and comparative safety. 

1 This narrative first appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine.' 



182 THE FLYING ACE 

Last thing at night, first thing in the morn- 
ing, and throughout the day we search the 
sky for a sign. And I cannot deny that on 
occasions a sea of low clouds, making impos- 
sible the next job, is a pleasant sight. 

The pale rose of sunrise is smudging over 
the last flickerings of the grey night. Only a 
few wisps of cloud are about, and they are 
too high to bother us. The wind is slight 
and from the east, for which many thanks, as 
it will make easier the return half of the circuit. 

We wrap ourselves in flying kit and cross 
the road to the aerodrome. There the band 
of leather-coated officers shiver while dis- 
cussing their respective places in the forma- 
tion. A bus lands and taxies to a shed. 
From it descends the Squadron Commander, 
who, with gum-boots and a warm coat over 
his pyjamas, has been "trying the air." "Get 
into your machines," he calls. As we obey 
he enters his hut-office and phones the wing 
headquarters. 

The major reappears, and the command 
"Start up!" is passed along the line of ma- 
chines. Ten minutes later we head for the 
trenches, climbing as we travel. 



THE DAILY ROUND 183 

It was cold on the ground. It was bitter 
at 5000 feet. It is damnable at 10,000 feet. 
I lean over the side to look at Arras, but 
draw back quickly as the frozen hand of the 
atmosphere slaps my face. My gloved hands 
grow numb, then ache profoundly when the 
warm blood brings back their power to feel. 
I test my gun, and the trigger-pressure is 
painful. Life is worse than rotten, it is 
beastly. 

But the cold soon does its worst, and a 
healthy circulation expels the numbness from 
my fingers. Besides, once we are beyond the 
lines, the work on hand allows small oppor- 
tunity to waste time on physical sensations. 
On this trip there is little interruption, thank 
goodness. Archie falls short of his average 
shooting, and we are able to outpace a group 
of some twelve Hun two-seaters that try to 
intercept us. The movement below is noted, 
the round is completed according to pro- 
gramme, and we turn westward and home- 
ward. 

Have you ever sucked bull's-eyes, respected 
sir or madame? If not, take it from me that 
the best time to try them is towards the end 



184 THE FLYING ACE 

of a three-hour flight over enemy country. 
Five bull's-eyes are then far more enjoyable 
than a five-course meal at the Grand Baby- 
lon Hotel. One of these striped vulgarities 
both soothes and warms me as we re-cross 
the trenches. 

Down go the noses of our craft, and we 
lose height as the leader, with an uneven, 
tree-bordered road as guide, makes for Dou- 
lens. From this town our aerodrome shows 
up plainly towards the south-west. Soon 
we shall be in the mess marquee, behind us 
a completed job, before us a hot breakfast. 
Life is good. 

Arrived on land we are met by mechanics, 
each of whom asks anxiously if his particular 
bus or engine has behaved well. The ob- 
servers write their reports, which I take to 
the Brass Hats at headquarters. This done, 
I enter the orchard, splash about in a canvas 
bath, and so to a contented breakfast. 

Next you will find most of the squadron 
officers at the aerodrome, seated in deck- 
chairs and warmed by an early autumn sun. 
It is the most important moment of the da}' 
— the post has just arrived. All letters ex- 



THE DAILY ROUND 185 

cept the one from His Majesty's impatient 
Surveyor of Taxes, who threatens to take 
proceedings "in the district in which you 
reside," are read and re-read, from "My 
dearest Bill" to "Yours as ever." Every 
scrap of news from home has tremendous 
value. Winkle, the dinky Persian with a 
penchant for night life, has presented the 
family with five kittens. Splendid! Lady 
X., who is, you know, the bosom friend of a 
certain Minister's wife, says the war will be 
over by next summer at the latest. Splendid 
again! Life is better than good, it is amusing. 
Yesterday's London papers have been de- 
livered with the letters. These also are de- 
voured, from light leaders on electoral reform 
to the serious legends underneath photo- 
graphs of the Lady Helen Toutechose, Mrs. 
Alexander Innit, and Miss Whatnot as part- 
time nurses, canteeners, munitioners, flag- 
sellers, charity matinee programme sellers, 
tableaux vivants, and patronesses of the un- 
dying arts. Before turning to the latest 
number of the 'Aeroplane,' our own par- 
ticular weekly, one wonders idly how the 
Lady Helen Toutechose and her emulators, 



186 THE FLYING ACE 

amid their strenuous quick-change war-work, 
find time to be photographed so constantly, 
assiduously, and distractingly. 

We pocket our correspondence and tackle 
the morning's work. Each pilot makes sure 
that his machine is overhauled, and if neces- 
sary, he runs the engine or puts a re-rigged 
bus through its paces. I am told off to 
instruct half a dozen officers newly arrived 
from the trenches on how to become a re- 
liable reconnaissance observer in one week. 
Several of us perform mysteriously in the 
workshops, for we are a squadron of many 
inventors. 

Every other officer has a pet mechanical 
originality. Marmaduke is preparing a small 
gravity tank for his machine, to be used 
when the pressure tank is ventilated by a 
bullet. The Tripehound has a scheme where- 
by all the control wires can be duplicated. 
Some one else has produced the latest thing 
in connections between the pilot's joystick 
and the Vickers gun. I am making a spade- 
grip trigger for the Lewis gun, so that the 
observer can always have one hand free to 
manipulate the movable backsight. When 



THE DAILY ROUND 187 

one of these deathless inventions is com- 
pleted the real hard work begins. The new 
gadget is adopted unanimously by the in- 
ventor himself, but he has a tremendous task 
in making the rest of the squadron see its 
merits. 

After lunch we scribble letters, for the 
post leaves at five. As we write the peace- 
ful afternoon is disturbed by the roar of five 
engines. B Flight is starting up in readi- 
ness for an offensive patrol. Ten minutes 
later more engines break into song, as three 
machines of C Flight leave to photograph 
some new lines of defence before Bapaume. 
The overhead hum dies away, and I allow 
myself a sleep in payment of the early morn- 
ing reconnaissance. 

Wearing a dress suit I am seated on the 
steps of a church. On my knee is a Lewis 
gun. An old gentleman, very respectable in 
dark spats, a black tie, and shiny top-hat, 
looks down at me reproachfully. 

"Very sad," he murmurs. 

"Don't you think this trigger's a damned 
good idea?" I ask. 

"Young man, this is an outrage. As you 



188 THE FLYING ACE 

are not ashamed enough to leave the church- 
yard of your own accord, I shall have you 
turned out." 

I laugh and proceed to pass some wire 
through the pistol-grip. The old man dis- 
appears, but he returns with three grave- 
diggers, who brandish their spades in terrify- 
ing manner. "Ha!" I think, "I must fly 
away." I fly my wings (did I tell you I had 
wings?) and rise above the church tower. 
Archie has evidently opened fire, for I hear 
a near-by wouff. I try to dodge, but it is 
too late. A shell fragment strikes my nose. 
Much to my surprise I find I can open my 
eyes. My nose is sore, one side of the tent 
waves gently, and a small apple reposes on 
my chest. 

Having run into the open I discover that 
the disengaged members of C Flight are 
raiding our corner with the sour little apples 
of the orchard. We collect ammunition from 
a tree and drive off the attackers. A diver- 
sion is created by the return of the three 
photography machines. We troop across to 
meet them. 

The next scene is the aerodrome once 



THE DAILY ROUND 189 

again. We sit in a group and censor letters. 
The countryside is quiet, the sun radiates 
cheerfulness, and the war seems very re- 
mote. But the mechanics of B Flight stand 
outside their sheds and look east. It is time 
the offensive patrol party were back. 

"There they are," says a watcher. Three 
far-away specks grow larger and larger. As 
they draw near, we are able to recognise 
them as our buses, by the position of their 
struts and the distinctive drone of the en- 
gines. 

Four machines crossed the lines on the 
expedition; where is the fourth? The crew 
of the other three do not know. They last 
saw the missing craft ten miles behind the 
Boche trenches, where it turned west after 
sending up a Very's light to signal the neces- 
sity of an immediate return. There were no 
Huns in sight, so the cause must have been 
engine trouble. 

The shadows of the lost pilot and observer 
darken the first ten minutes at the dinner- 
table. However, since cheerfulness is beyond 
godliness, we will take this to be an anxious 
occasion with a happy ending. Comes a 



190 THE FLYING ACE 

welcome message from the orderly officer, 
saying that the pilot has phoned. His rea- 
son for leaving the patrol was that his engine 
went dud. Later it petered out altogether, 
so that he was forced to glide down and 
land near a battery of our howitzers. 

The conversational atmosphere now lightens. 
Some people from another squadron are our 
guests, and with them we exchange the latest 
flying gossip. The other day, X rammed 
a machine after his gun had jambed. Y has 
been given the Military Cross. Archie has 
sent west two machines of the eleventeenth 
squadron. While on his way home, with no 
more ammunition, Z was attacked by a fast 
scout. He grabbed a Very's pistol and fired 
at the Boche a succession of lights, red, 
white, and green. The Boche, taking the 
rockets for a signal from a decoy machine, 
or from some new form of British frightful- 
ness, promptly retired. 

Dinner over, the usual crowd settle around 
the card-table, and the gramophone churns 
out the same old tunes. There is some dis- 
sension between a man who likes music and 
another who prefers rag-time. Number one 



THE DAILY ROUND 191 

leads off with the Peer Gynt Suite, and num- 
ber two counters with the record that cho- 
ruses: "Hello, how are you?" From the 
babel of yarning emerges the voice of our 
licensed liar — 

"So I told the General he was the sort of 
bloke who ate tripe and gargled with his 
beer." 

"Flush," calls a poker player. 

"Give us a kiss, give us a kiss, by wireless," 
pleads the gramophone. 

"Good-night, chaps. See you over Cam- 
brai." This from a departing guest. 

Chorus — "Good-night, old bean." 

The lively evening ends with a sing-song, of 
which the star number is a ballad to the 
tune of "Tarpaulin Jacket," handed down 
from the pre-war days of the Flying Corps, 
and beginning — 

"The young aviator was dying, 
And as 'neath the wreckage he lay (he lay), 
To the A.M.'s assembled around him 
These last parting words he did say: 
'Take the cylinders out of my kidneys, 
The connecting-rod out of my brain (my brain), 
From the small of my back take the crank-shaft. 
And assemble the engine again.' " 



192 THE FLYING ACE 

On turning in we gave the sky a final 
scour. It is non-committal on the subject of 
to-morrow's weather. The night is dark, 
the moon is at her last quarter, only a few 
stars glimmer. 

I feel sure the farmers need rain. If it 
be fine to-morrow we shall sit over Archie 
for three hours. If it be conveniently wet 
we shall charter a light tender and pay a 
long-deferred visit to the city of Arriere. 
There I shall visit a real barber; pass the 
time of day with my friend Mdlle. Henriette, 
whose black eyes and ready tongue grace a 
bookshop of the Rue des Trois Cailloux; 
dine greatly at a little restaurant in the 
Rue du Corps Nu Sans Tete; and return 
with reinforcements of Anatole France, col- 
lar-studs, and French slang. 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS DUE 

TO THE 

OWNER OF THESE LETTERS, WHO HAS ALLOWED 

ME TO REVISE FOR PUBLICATION WHAT 

WAS WRITTEN FOR HER ALONE 



LOOKING FOR TROUBLE. 

You have asked me, mon amie, to 

tell you from personal experience all about 
aeroplanes on active service. With the best 
will in the world I can do no such thing, any- 
more than a medical student could tell you, 
from personal experience, all about midwifery. 
The Flying Corps has in France hundreds 
of aeroplanes, scores of squadrons, and a 
dozen varying duties. Earlier in the war, 
when army aircraft were few and their func- 
tion belonged to the pioneer stage, every 
pilot and observer dabbled in many things — 
reconnaissance, artillery observation, bomb 
raids, photography, and fighting. But the 
service has since expanded so much, both in 
size and importance, that each squadron is 
made to specialise in one or two branches of 
work, while other specialists look after the 
remainder. The daily round of an artillery 
squadron, for example, is very different from 
the daily round of a reconnaissance squad- 

195 



196 THE FLYING ACE 

ron, which is quite as different from that of 
a scout squadron. Alors, my experience only 
covers the duties of my own squadron. These 
I will do my best to picture for you, but 
please don't look upon my letters as dealing 
with the Flying Corps as a whole. 

Perhaps you will see better what I mean 
if you know something of our organisation 
and of the different kinds of machines. 
There are slow, stable two-seaters that ob- 
serve around the lines; fighting two-seaters 
that operate over an area extending some 
thirty miles beyond the lines; faster fighting 
two-seaters that spy upon enemy country 
still farther afield; the bombing craft, single- 
seaters or two-seaters used as single-seaters; 
photography machines; and single-seater 
scouts, quick-climbing and quick-manoeu- 
vring, that protect and escort the observation 
buses and pounce on enemy aeroplanes at 
sight. All these confine themselves to their 
specialised jobs, though their outgoings are 
planned to fit the general scheme of aerial 
tactics. The one diversion shared by every 
type is scrapping the air Hun whenever pos- 
sible — and the ground Hun too for that 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 197 

matter, if he appear in the open and one 
can dive at hirn. 

Our organisation is much the same as 
the organisation of the older — and junior 
— arms of the Service (oh yes! the Gazette 
gives us precedence over the Guards, the 
Household Cavalry, and suchlike people). 
Three or more squadrons are directed by a 
wing-commander, whom one treats with deep 
respect as he speeds a formation from the 
aerodrome; a number of wings, with an air- 
craft depot, are directed by a brigadier, whom 
one treats with still deeper respect when he 
pays a visit of inspection; the brigades are 
directed by the General-Officer-Commanding- 
the-Flying-Corps-in-the-Field, one-of-the-best, 
who treats us like brothers. 

We, in umpty squadron, are of the G.H.Q. 
wing, our work being long reconnaissance and 
offensive patrols over that part of the Somme 
basin where bands of Hun aircraft rove thick- 
est. Our home is a wide aerodrome, flanked by 
a village that comprises about thirty decrepit 
cottages and a beautiful little old church. 
Our tents are pitched in a pleasant orchard, 
which is strewn with sour apples and field 



198 THE FLYING ACE 

kitchens. For the rest, we are a happy fam- 
ily, and the sole blot on our arcadian ex- 
istence is the daily journey east to meet 
Brother Boche and his hired bully Archibald. 

After which explanatory stuff I will pro- 
ceed to what will interest you more, madam 
— the excitements and tediousness of flights 
over enemy country. Three hours ago I 
returned from a patrol round Mossy-Face 
Wood, where one seldom fails to meet black- 
crossed birds of prey, so I will begin with the 
subject of a hunt for the Flying Deutschman. 

There are two kinds of fighting air patrol, 
the defensive and the offensive, the pleas- 
antly exciting and the excitingly unpleasant. 
The two species of patrol have of late kept 
the great majority of German craft away 
from our lines. 

Airmen who look for trouble over enemy 
country seldom fail to find it, for nothing 
enrages the Boche more than the overhead 
drone of allied aircraft. Here, then, are 
some average happenings on an offensive 
patrol, as I have known them. 

We cross the lines at our maximum height, 
for it is of great advantage to be above an 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 199 

enemy when attacking. Our high altitude is 
also useful in that it makes us a small target 
for Herr Archie, which is distinctly important, 
as we are going to sit over him for the next 
few hours. 

Archie only takes a few seconds to make 
up his mind about our height and range. 
He is not far wrong either, as witness the 
ugly black bursts slightly ahead, creeping 
nearer and nearer. Now there are two bursts 
uncomfortably close to the leader's machine, 
and its pilot and observer hear that ominous 
wouff! The pilot dips and swerves. Another 
woujf! and he is watching a burst that might 
have got him, had he kept a straight course. 

Again the Archies try for the leader. This 
time their shells are well away, in fact so 
far back that they are near our bus. The 
German battery notices this, and we are 
forthwith bracketed in front and behind. 
We swoop away in a second, and escape with 
nothing worse than a violent stagger, and we 
are thrown upward as a shell bursts close 
underneath. 

But we soon shake off the Archie group 
immediately behind the lines, Freed from 



200 THE FLYING ACE 

the immediate necessity of shell-dodging, the 
flight-commander leads his covey around the 
particular hostile preserve marked out for 
his attention. Each pilot and each observer 
twists his neck as if it were made of rubber, 
looking above, below, and all around. Only 
thus can one guard against surprise and sur- 
prise strangers, and avoid being surprised 
oneself. x4n airman new to active service 
often finds difficulty in acquiring the neces- 
sary intuitive vision which attracts his eyes 
instinctively to hostile craft. If his machine 
straggles, and he has not this sixth sense, 
he will sometimes hear the rattle of a mys- 
terious machine-gun, or even the phut of a 
bullet, before he sees the swift scout that has 
swooped down from nowhere. 

There is a moment of excitement when the 
flight-commander spots three machines two 
thousand feet below. Are they Huns? His 
observer uses field-glasses, and sees black 
crosses on the wings. The signal to attack 
is fired, and we follow the leader into a steep 
dive. 

With nerves taut and every faculty con- 
centrated on getting near enough to shoot, 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 201 

and then shooting quickly but calmly, we 
have no time to analyse the sensations of 
that dive. We may feel the tremendous 
pressure hemming us in when we try to 
lean over the side, but otherwise all we 
realise is that the wind is whistling past the 
strained wires, that our guns must be ready 
for instant use, and that down below are 
some enemies. 

The flight-commander, his machine aimed 
dead at the leading German, follows the 
enemy trio down, down, as they apparently 
seek to escape by going ever lower. He is 
almost near enough for some shooting when 
the Huns dive steeply, with the evident inten- 
tion of landing on a near-by aerodrome. One 
of them fires a light as he goes, and — enter the 
villain Archibald to loud music. A ter-rap! 

Our old friend Archie has been lying in 
wait with guns set for a certain height, to 
which his three decoy birds have led us. 
There crashes a discord of shell-bursts as we 
pull our machines out of the dive and swerve 
away. The last machine to leave the un- 
healthy patch of air is pursued for some 
seconds by flaming rockets. 



202 THE FLYING ACE 

The patrol re-forms, and we climb to our 
original height. One machine has left for 
home, with part of a control wire dangling 
helplessly beneath it, and a chunk of tail- 
plane left as a tribute to Archie. 

We complete the course and go over it 
again, with nothing more exciting than fur- 
ther anti-aircraft fire, a few Huns too low 
for another dive, and a sick observer. 

Even intrepid birdmen (war correspond- 
entese for flying officers) tire of trying to be 
offensive on a patrol, and by now we are 
varying our rubber-neck searchings with fur- 
tive glances at the time, in the hopes that 
the watch-hands may be in the home-to- 
roost position. At length the leader heads 
for the lines, and the lords of the air (more 
war correspondentese) forget their high estate 
and think of tea. 

Not yet. Coming south towards Bapaume 
is a beautiful flock of black-crossed birds. 
As often happens, the German biplanes are 
ranged one above the other, like the tiers 
of a dress-circle. 

Again the signal to attack, and the flight- 
commander sweeps at what seems to be the 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 203 

highest enemy. We are ranging ourselves 
round him, when two enemy scouts sweep 
down from heaven-knows-where, firing as 
they come. Several of their bullets enter 
the engine of our rearmost rearguard. Find- 
ing that the engine is on strike, the pilot 
detaches his machine from the confusion and 
glides across the lines, which are quite close. 

For five minutes there is a medley of swift 
darts, dives, and cart-wheel turns, amid the 
continuous ta-ta-ta-ta-ta of machine - guns. 
Then a German machine sways, staggers, 
points its nose downwards vertically, and 
rushes earthwards, spinning rhythmically. 
The other Boches put their noses down and 
turn east. We follow until we find it is 
impossible to catch them up, whereupon we 
make for home. 

The trenches are now passed, and our 
aerodrome is quite near. The strained nerve- 
tension snaps, the air seems intoxicatingly 
light. Pilots and observers munch chocolate 
contentedly or lift up their voices in songs of 
Blighty. I tackle "The Right Side of Bond 
Street," and think of pleasant places and 
beings, such as Henley during regatta week, 



204 THE FLYING ACE 

the Babylon Theatre, and your delightful 
self. 

We land, piece together our report, and 
count the bullet-holes on the machine. In 
ten minutes' time you will find us around 
the mess-table, reconstructing the fight over 
late afternoon tea. In the intervals of eating 
cake I shall write you, and the gramophone 
will be shrilling "Chalk Farm to Camberwell 
Green." 

France, July, 1916. 



II. 

"one of our machines is missing." 

— Official Report. 

Much may be read into the am- 
biguous word "missing." Applied to a wife 
or an actress's jewellery it can mean any- 
thing. Applied to a man on active service 
it can mean one of three things. He may 
be dead, he may be a prisoner, he may be 
wounded and a prisoner. If he be dead he 
enters Valhalla. If he be a prisoner and a 
wise man he enters a small cheque for the 
German Red Cross, as being the quickest 
way of letting his bankers and relations know 
he is alive. 

A missing aeroplane no longer exists, in 
nine cases out of ten. Either it is lying in 
pieces on enemy ground, smashed by an un- 
controlled fall, or it was burned by its former 
tenants when they landed, after finding it 
impossible to reach safety. Quite recently 
my pilot and I nearly had to do this, but 
were just able to glide across a small salient. 

205 



206 THE FLYING ACE 

I am thus qualified to describe a typical 
series of incidents preceding the announce- 
ment, "one of our machines is missing," and 
I do so in the hope that this may interest 
you, madam, as you flit from town to coun- 
try, country to town, and so to bed. 

A group of British machines are carrying 
out a long reconnaissance. So far nothing 
has happened to divert the observers from 
their notes and sketches, and a pilot con- 
gratulates himself that he is on a joy-ride. 
Next instant his sixth sense tells him there 
is something in the air quite foreign to a 
joy-ride. And there is. A thousand yards 
ahead some eight to twelve machines have 
appeared. The reconnaissance birds keep to 
their course, but all eyes are strained to- 
wards the newcomers. Within ten seconds 
it is established that they are foes. The ob- 
servers put aside note-books and pencils, and 
finger their machine-guns expectantly. 

On come the Germans to dispute the 
right of way. On go the British, not seek- 
ing a fight, but fully prepared to force a 
way through. Their job is to complete the 
reconnaissance, and not to indulge in super- 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 207 

fluous air duels, but it will take a very great 
deal to turn them from their path. 

Now the aggressors are within 300 yards, 
and firing opens. When the fight gets to 
uncomfortably close quarters the Boches 
move aside and follow the reconnaissance 
party, waiting for an opportunity to sur- 
round stragglers. Finally, some lucky shots 
by a British observer cause one of them to 
land in a damaged condition, whereupon the 
rest retire. The British machines finish their 
job and return with useful information. 

But the party is no longer complete. The 
pilot who thought of joy-rides was in the 
rear machine, and the rear machine has dis- 
appeared. Two Huns cut him off when the 
rest began to follow the British formation. 

His observer takes careful aim at the 
nearest enemy, and rattles through a whole 
drum as the German sweeps down and past, 
until he is out of range. The pilot vertical- 
turns the machine, and makes for the second 
Boche. But this gentleman, refusing to con- 
tinue the fight alone, dives to join his com- 
panion. The pair of them hover about for a 
few minutes, and then disappear eastward. 



208 THE FLYING ACE 

The lonely pilot and observer look round 
and take their bearings. 

"Where are the others?" shouts the pilot 
down the speaking-tube. 

"Right away to the north; we are alone 
in the wicked world." Thus the observer's 
reply, handed across on a slip of paper. 

Hoping to catch sight of the reconnais- 
sance party, my friend the pilot opens his 
engine full out and begins to follow the 
course that remained to be covered. For 
ten minutes he continues the attempt to 
catch up, but as the only aeroplanes to be 
seen are coming up from an enemy aero- 
drome he decides to get back alone as quickly 
as possible, and he turns due west. 

The homing bird must fly in the teeth of 
a strong west wind. It struggles along 
gamely, and the pilot calculates that he may 
reach the lines within twenty-five minutes. 
But he has a queer feeling that trouble is 
ahead, and, like his observer, he turns his 
head around the horizon, so as not to be 
caught unprepared. 

All goes well for five minutes, except for 
some nasty Archie shells. Then the two 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 209 

men see a flock of aircraft at a great height, 
coming from the north. Although black 
crosses cannot be spotted at this range, the 
shape and peculiar whiteness of the wings 
make it probable that the strangers are 
hostile. Possibly they are the very people 
who attacked and followed the reconnais- 
sance formation. 

Our pilot puts down the nose of his ma- 
chine, and races westward. The strangers, 
making good use of their extra height, turn 
south-west and try to head him off. They 
gain quickly, and pilot and observer brace 
themselves for a fight against odds. 

The Germans are now about 700 feet 
higher than my friends, and directly above 
them. Four enemies dive, at an average 
speed of 150 miles an hour, and from all 
directions the Britishers hear the rattle of 
machine-guns. The observer engages one 
of the Huns, and evidently gets in some 
good shooting, for it swerves away and lets 
another take its place. Meanwhile enemy 
bullets have crashed through two spars, shot 
away a rudder-control, and ripped several 
parts of the fuselage. 



210 THE FLYING ACE 

The black-crossed hawks cluster all around. 
There are two on the left, one on the right, 
one underneath the tail, and two above. A 
seventh Hun sweeps past in front, about 
eighty yards ahead. The pilot's gun rakes 
it from stem to stern as it crosses, and he 
gives a great shout as its petrol-tank begins 
to blaze and the enemy craft flings itself 
down, with a stream of smoke and another 
flame shooting out behind. 

But his own petrol-tank has been plugged 
from the side, and his observer has a bullet 
in the left arm. The petrol supply is regu- 
lated by pressure, and, the pressure having 
gone when German bullets opened the tank, 
the engine gets less and less petrol, and 
finally ceases work. 

To glide fifteen miles to the lines is clearly 
impossible. There is nothing for it but to 
accept the inevitable and choose a good land- 
ing-ground. The pilot pushes the joystick 
slowly forward and prepares to land. 

The Germans follow their prey down, ready 
to destroy if by any chance its engine comes 
back to life, and it stops losing height. The 
observer tears up papers and maps, performs 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 211 

certain other duties whereby the enemy is 
cheated of booty, and stuffs all personal pos- 
sessions into his pocket. 

A medley of thoughts race across the ob- 
server's mind as the pilot S-turns the ma- 
chine over the field he has chosen. A prisoner ! 
— damnable luck — all papers destroyed — arm 
hurting — useless till end of war — how long 
will it last? — chances of escape — relieve par- 
ents' suspense — must write — due for leave — 
Marjorie — Piccadilly in the sunshine — rotten 
luck — was to be — make best of it — Kismet! 

One duty remains. The observer digs into 
the petrol tank as they touch earth, and then 
runs round the machine. In a second the 
petrol is ablaze and the fuselage and wings 
are burning merrily. Germans rush up and 
make vain attempts to put out the fire. Soon 
nothing remains but charred debris, a dis- 
coloured engine, bits of metal and twisted 
wires. 

My friends are seized, searched, and dis- 
armed. They then shake hands with the 
German pilots, now heatedly discussing who 
was chiefly responsible for their success. The 
captive couple are lunched by the enemy 



212 THE FLYING ACE 

airmen, who see that the wounded observer 
receives proper attention. At the risk of 
incensing some of your eat-'em-alive civilian 
friends, I may say we have plenty of evi- 
dence that the German Flying Corps includes 
many gentlemen. 

Later my friends are questioned, searched 
again from head to toe, and packed off to 
Germany. Just now they are affected with 
deadly heart-sickness, due to the wearisome 
inaction of confinement in a hostile land, 
while we, their friends and brothers, continue 
to play our tiny parts in Armageddon. 

I enclose their names, and that of the 
prison camp where they are lodged. Per- 
haps you will find time to send them some 
of your fast-dwindling luxuries, as you flit 
from town to country, country to town, and 
so to bed. 

France, July, 1916 



III. 

A BOMB RAID. 

What are your feelings, dear lady, 

as you watch the airships that pass in the 
night and hear the explosion of their bombs? 
At such a time the sensations of most people, 
I imagine, are a mixture of deep interest, 
deep anger, excitement, nervousness, and de- 
sire for revenge. Certainly they do not in- 
clude speculation about the men who man 
the raiders. 

And for their part, the men who man the 
raiders certainly do not speculate about you 
and your state of mind. When back home, 
some of them may wonder what feelings they 
have inspired in the people below, but at the 
time the job's the thing and nothing else 
matters. 

Out here we bomb only places of military 
value, and do it mostly in the daytime, but 
I should think our experiences must have 
much in common with those of Zeppelin 

213 



214 THE FLYING ACE 

crews. I can assure you they are far more 
strenuous than yours on the ground. 

Our bombing machines in France visit all 
sorts of places — forts, garrison towns, railway 
junctions and railheads, bivouac grounds, staff 
headquarters, factories, ammunition depots, 
aerodromes, Zeppelin sheds, and naval har- 
bours. Some objectives are just behind the 
lines, some are 100 miles away. There are 
also free-lance exploits, as when a pilot with 
some eggs to spare dives down to a low alti- 
tude and drops them on a train or a column of 
troops. 

A daylight bomb raid is seldom a complete 
failure, but the results are sometimes hard to 
record. If an ammunition store blows up, or 
a railway station bursts into flames, or a train 
is swept off the rails and the lines cut, an air- 
man can see enough to know he has suc- 
ceeded. But if the bombs fall on something 
that does not explode or catch fire, it is 
almost impossible to note exactly what has 
been hit. Even a fire is hard to locate while 
one is running away from Archie and perhaps 
a few flaming onions. 

Fighting machines often accompany the 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 215 

bombing parties as escort. The fighters 
guard the bombers until the eggs are dropped, 
and seize any chances of a scrap on the way 
back. It is only thus that I have played a 
part in raids, for our squadron does not add 
bombs to its other troubles. I will now tell 
you, my very dear friend, about one such trip. 

The morning is clear and filled with sun- 
shine, but a strong westerly wind is blowing. 
This will increase our speed on the outward 
journey, and so help to make the attack a 
surprise. Those low-lying banks of thick 
white clouds are also favourable to the factor 
of surprise. 

It is just before midday, and we are gath- 
ered in a group near the machines, listening 
to the flight-commander's final directions. 
Punctually at noon the bombers leave the 
ground, climb to the rendezvous height, and 
arrange themselves in formation. The scout 
machines constituting the escort proper fol- 
low, and rise to a few hundred feet above 
the bombers. The whole party circles round 
the aerodrome until the signal strips for 
"Carry on" are laid out on the ground, when 
it heads for the lines. 



216 THE FLYING ACE 

At this point we, the fighting two-seaters, 
start up and climb to our allotted height. 
We are to follow the bombing party and act 
as a rearguard until the eggs have fallen. 
Afterwards, when the others have finished 
their little bit and get home to their tea, 
it will be our pleasant task to hang about 
between the lines and the scene of the raid, 
and deal with such infuriated Boche pilots 
as may take the air with some idea of re- 
venge. 

We travel eastwards, keeping well in sight 
of the bombers. The ridges of clouds become 
more numerous, and only through gaps can 
we see the trenches and other landmarks. 
Archie, also, can only see through the gaps, 
and, disconcerted by the low clouds, his per- 
formance is not so good as usual. But for a 
few shells, very wide of the mark, we are 
not interrupted, for there are no German 
craft in sight. 

With the powerful wind behind us we are 
soon over the objective, a large wood some 
few miles behind the lines. The wood is 
reported to be a favourite bivouac ground, 
and it is surrounded by Boche aerodromes. 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 217 

Now the bombers drop below the clouds 
to a height convenient for their job. As the 
wood covers an area of several square miles 
and almost any part of it may contain troops, 
there is no need to descend far before taking 
aim. Each pilot chooses a spot for his par- 
ticular attention, for preference somewhere 
near the road that bisects the wood. He 
aligns his sights on the target, releases the 
bombs, and watches for signs of an inter- 
rupted lunch below. 

It is quite impossible to tell the extent 
of the damage, for the raid is directed not 
against some definite object, but against an 
area containing troops, guns, and stores. The 
damage will be as much moral as material 
since nothing unnerves war-weary men more 
than to realise that they are never safe from 
aircraft. 

The guns get busy at once, for the wood 
contains a nest of Archies. Ugly black bursts 
surround the bombers, who swerve and zig- 
zag as they run. When well away from the 
wood they climb back to us through the 
clouds. 

We turn west and battle our way against 



818 THE FLYING ACE 

the wind, now our foe. Half-way to the lines 
we wave an envious good-bye to the bombers 
and scouts, and begin our solitary patrol 
above the clouds. 

We cruise all round the compass, hunting 
for Huns. Twice we see enemy machines 
through rifts in the clouds, but each time we 
dive towards them they refuse battle and 
remain at a height of some thousand feet, 
ready to drop even lower, if they can lure us 
down through the barrage of A. -A. shells. 
Nothing else of importance happens, and 
things get monotonous. I look at my watch 
and think it the slowest thing on earth, 
slower than the leave train. The minute- 
hand creeps round, and homing-time arrives. 

We have one more flutter on the way to 
the trenches. Two Huns come to sniff at 
us, and we dive below the clouds once more. 

But it is the old, old dodge of trying to 
salt the bird's tail. The Hun decoys make 
themselves scarce — and H.E. bursts make 
themselves plentiful. Archie has got the 
range of those clouds to a few feet, and, 
since we are a little beneath them, he has 
got our range too. We dodge with diffi- 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 219 

culty, for Archie revels in a background of 
low clouds. Nobody is hit, however, and 
our party crosses the lines; and so home. 

From the point of view of our fighting 
machines, the afternoon has been uneventful. 
Nevertheless, the job has been done, so much 
so that the dwellers in the wood where we 
left our cards are still regretting their dis- 
turbed luncheon, while airmen and A.-A. 
gunners around the wood tell each other 
what they will do to the next lot of raiders. 
We shall probably call on them again next 
week, when I will let you know whether 
their bloodthirsty intentions mature. 

France, September, 1916 



IV. 

SPYING BY SNAPSHOT. 

Since daybreak a great wind has 

raged from the east, and even as I write 
you, my best of friends, it whines past the 
mess-tent. This, together with low clouds, 
had kept aircraft inactive — a state of things 
in which we had revelled for nearly a week, 
owing to rain and mist. 

However, towards late afternoon the clouds 
were blown from the trench region, and ar- 
tillery machines snatched a few hours' work 
from the fag-end of daylight. The wind was 
too strong for offensive patrols or long recon- 
naissance, so that we of Umpty Squadron did 
not expect a call to flight. 

But the powers that control our outgoings 
and incomings thought otherwise. In view of 
the morrow's operations they wanted urgently 
a plan of some new defences on which the 
Hun had been busy during the spell of dud 
weather. They selected Umpty Squadron for 

220 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 221 

the job, probably because the Sopwith would 
be likely to complete it more quickly than 
any other type, under the adverse conditions 
and the time-limit set by the sinking sun. 
The Squadron Commander detailed two buses 
— ours and another. 

As it was late, we had little leisure for 
preparation; the cameras were brought in a 
hurry from the photographic lorry, examined 
hastily by the observers who were to use 
them, and fitted into the conical recesses 
through the fuselage floor. We rose from the 
aerodrome within fifteen minutes of the de- 
liverance of flying orders. 

Because of doubtful light the photographs 
were to be taken from the comparatively low 
altitude of 7000 feet. We were able, there- 
fore, to complete our climb while on the way 
to Albert, after meeting the second machine 
at 2000 feet. 

All went well until we reached the neigh- 
bourhood of Albert, but there we ran into a 
thick ridge of cloud and became separated. 
We dropped below into the clear air, and 
hovered about in a search for the companion 
bus. Five minutes brought no sign of its 



222 THE FLYING ACE 

whereabouts, so we continued alone towards 
the trenches. Three minutes later, when 
about one mile west of Pozieres, we sighted, 
some 900 yards to north of us, a solitary- 
machine that looked like a Sopwith, though 
one could not be certain at such a range. If 
it was indeed our second bus, its pilot, who 
was new to France, must have misjudged 
his bearings, for it nosed across to the Ger- 
man air country and merged into the noth- 
ingness, miles away from our objective. What 
became of the lost craft is a mystery which 
may be cleared up to-morrow, or more prob- 
ably in a month's time by communication 
from the German Prisoners' Bureau, or may- 
be never. Thus far we have heard nothing, 
so a forced landing on British ground is un- 
likely. For the rest, the pilot and observer 
may be killed, wounded, injured, or prisoners. 
All we know is that they flew into the Ewig- 
keit and are "missing." 

For these many weeks Pozieres has been 
but a name and a waste brick pile; yet the 
site of the powdered village cannot be mis- 
taken from the air, for, slightly to the east, 
two huge mine-craters sentinel it, left and 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 223 

right. From here to Le Sars, which straddles 
the road four miles beyond, was our photo- 
graphic objective. We were to cover either 
side of the road twice, so I had arranged to 
use half the number of plates during each 
there-and-back journey. 

The R.F.C. camera used by us is so simple 
as to be called foolproof. Eighteen plates 
are stacked in a changing-box over the shut- 
ter. You slide the loading handle forward 
and backward, and the first plate falls into 
position. Arrived over the spot to be spied 
upon, you take careful sight and pull a string 
— and the camera has reproduced whatever 
is 9000 feet below it. Again you operate the 
loading handle; the exposed plate is pushed 
into an empty changing-box underneath an 
extension, and plate the second falls into 
readiness for exposure, while the indicator 
shows 2. And so on until the changing-box 
for bare plates is emptied and the changing- 
box for used ones is filled. Whatever skill 
attaches to the taking of aerial snapshots is in 
judging when the machine is flying dead level 
and above the exact objective, and in repeating 
the process after a properly timed interval. 



224 THE FLYING ACE 

A.-A. guns by the dozen hit out imme- 
diately we crossed the lines, for we were 
their one target. No other craft were in 
sight, except a lone B.E., which was drifted 
by the wind as it spotted for artillery from 
the British side of the trenches. Scores of 
black puffs, attended by cavernous coughs, 
did their best to put the wind up us. They 
succeeded to a certain extent, though not 
enough to hinder the work on hand. 

Everything was in Archie's favour. We 
were at 7000 feet — an easy height for A.-A. 
sighting — we were silhouetted against a cover 
of high clouds, our ground speed was only 
some thirty miles an hour against the raging 
wind, and we dared not dodge the bursts, 
however close, as area photography from any- 
thing but an even line of flight is useless. 
Yet, though the bursts kept us on edge, we 
were not touched by sp much as a splinter. 
In this we were lucky under the conditions. 
The luck could scarcely have held had the 
job lasted much longer than a quarter of an 
hour — which is a consoling thought when one 
is safe back and writing to a dear friend in 
England, not? 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 225 

Northward, along the left-hand side of the 
road, was my first subject; and a damned 
unpleasant subject it was — a dirty-soiled, 
shell-scarred wilderness. I looked overboard 
to make certain of the map square, with- 
drew back into the office, pulled the shutter- 
string, and loaded the next plate for exposure. 

"Wouffl Ouff! Ouffl" barked Archie, 
many times and loud. An instinct to swerve 
assaulted the pilot, but after a slight devia- 
tion he controlled his impulse and held the 
bus above the roadside. He had a difficult 
task to maintain a level course. Whereas we 
wanted to make east-north-east, the wind 
was due east, so that it cut across and drifted 
us in a transverse direction. To keep straight 
it was necessary to steer crooked — that is to 
say, head three-quarters into the wind to 
counteract the drift, the line of flight thus 
forming an angle of about 12° with the longi- 
tudinal axis of the aeroplane. 

"Wouff! oujf!" Archibald continued, as I 
counted in seconds the interval to the scene 
of the next snapshot, which, as assurance 
that the whole ground would be covered, 
was to overlap slightly the first. A quick 



226 THE FLYING ACE 

glance below, another tug at the string, and 
plate the second was etched with informa- 
tion. The third, fourth, and fifth followed; 
and finally, to our great relief, we reach Le 
Sars. 

Here the pilot was able to dodge for a 
few seconds while we turned to retrace the 
course, this time along the southern edge of 
the road. He side-slipped the bus, pulled it 
around in an Immelman turn, and then felt 
the rudder-controls until we were in the re- 
quired direction. The interval between suc- 
cessive exposures was now shorter, as the 
east wind brought our ground speed to 120 
miles an hour, even with the engine throttled 
back. There was scarcely time to sight the 
objective before the photograph must be 
taken and the next plate loaded into place. 
Within two minutes we were again over 
Pozieres. 

V. took us across the lines, so as to de- 
ceive the Archie merchants into a belief that 
we were going home. We then climbed a 
little, turned sharply, and began to repeat 
our outward trip to north of the road. 

Evidently Archie had allowed his leg to 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 227 

be pulled by the feint, and for two minutes 
he only molested the machine with a few 
wild shots. But soon he recovered his old 
form, so that when we had reached Le Sars 
the bus was again wreathed by black puffs. 
We vertical - turned across the road and 
headed for the trenches once more, with 
the last few plates waiting for exposure. 

Archie now seemed to treat the deliber- 
ation of the solitary machine's movements 
as a challenge to his ability, and he deter- 
mined to make us pay for our seeming con- 
tempt. An ugly barrage of A.-A. shell- 
bursts separated us from friendly air, the 
discs of black smoke expanding as they 
hung in little clusters. Into this barrier of 
hate we went unwillingly, like children sent 
to church as a duty. 

Scores of staccato war-whoops reminded 
us that the Boche gunners wanted our scalp. 
I don't know how V. felt about it, but I 
well know that I was in a state of acute 
fear. Half-way to Pozieres I abandoned 
checking the ground by the map, and judged 
the final photographs by counting the sec- 
onds between each — "one, two, three, four 



228 THE FLYING ACE 

{wouff! wouff! wouff! wouff!) 99 ; pull the string, 
press forward the loading-handle, bring it 
back; "one, two, three, four (wouff! wouff! 
wouff! wouff!)" et-cetera. Just as the final 
plate-number showed on the indicator a 
mighty report from underneath startled us, 
and the machine was pressed upward, left 
wing down. 

This was terrifying enough but not harm- 
ful, for not one of the fragments from the 
near burst touched us, strange to say. The 
pilot righted the bus, and I made the last 
exposure, without, I am afraid, caring what 
patch of earth was shuttered on to the plate. 

Nose down and engine full out, we hared 
over the trenches. Archie's hate followed 
for some distance, but to no purpose; and 
at last we were at liberty to fly home, at 
peace with the wind and the world. We 
landed less than three-quarters of an hour 
after we had left the aerodrome in a hurry. 

"Good boys," said the Squadron Com- 
mander; "now see that lightning is used in 
developing your prints." 

The camera was rushed to the photo- 
graphic lorry, the plates were unloaded in 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 229 

the dark hut, the negatives were developed. 
Half an hour later I received the first proofs, 
and, with them, some degree of disappoint- 
ment. Those covering the first outward and 
return journey between Pozieres and Le Sars 
were good, as were the next three, at the 
beginning of the second journey. Then came 
a confused blur of superimposed ground- 
patterns, and at the last five results blank 
as the brain of a flapper. A jamb in the 
upper changing-box had led to five exposures 
on the one plate. 

As you know, mon amie, I am a fool. But 
I do not like to be reminded of the self- 
evident fact. The photographic officer said I 
must have made some silly mistake with the 
loading handle, and he remarked sadly that 
the camera was supposed to be foolproof. I 
said he must have made some silly mistake 
when inspecting the camera before it left his 
workshop, and I remarked viciously that the 
camera was foolproof against a careless oper- 
ator, but by no means foolproof against the 
careless expert. There we left the subject 
and the spoiled plates, as the evening was 
too far advanced for the trip to be repeated. 



230 THE FLYING ACE 

As the pho toman has a pleasant job at wing 
headquarters, whereas I am but an observer 
— that is to say, an R.F.C. doormat — the 
blame was laid on me as a matter of course. 
However, the information supplied by the 
successful exposures pleased the staff people 
at whose instigation the deed was done, and 
this was all that really mattered. 

I have already told you that our main 
work in umpty squadron is long reconnais- 
sance for G.H.Q. and offensive patrol. Spe- 
cial photographic stunts such as happened 
to-day are rare, thank the Lord. But our 
cameras often prepare the way for a bomb- 
ing expedition. An observer returns from a 
reconnaissance flight with snapshots of a 
railhead, a busy factory, or an army head- 
quarters. Prints are sent to the "I" people, 
who, at their leisure, map out in detail the 
point of interest. No fear of doubtful re- 
ports from the glossed surface of geometrical 
reproduction, for the camera, our most trusted 
spy, cannot distort the truth. Next a com- 
plete plan of the chosen objective, with its 
surroundings, is given to a bombing squad- 
ron; and finally, the pilots concerned, well 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 231 

primed with knowledge of exactly where to 
align their bombsights, fly off to destroy. 

For the corps and army squadrons of the 
R.F.C. photography has a prominent place 
in the daily round. To them falls the duty of 
providing survey-maps of the complete sys- 
tem of enemy defences. Their all-seeing lenses 
penetrate through camouflage to new trenches 
and emplacements, while exposing fake forti- 
fications. The broken or unbroken German 
line is fully revealed, even to such details as 
the barbed wire in front and the approaches 
in rear. 

For clues to battery positions and the like, 
the gun country behind the frontier of the 
trenches is likewise searched by camera. One 
day a certain square on the artillery map 
seems lifeless. The following afternoon an 
overhead snapshot reveals a new clump of 
trees or a curious mark not to be found on 
earlier photographs. On the third day the 
mark has disappeared, or the trees are clus- 
tered in a slightly different shape. But mean- 
while an exact position has been pin-pointed, 
so that certain heavy guns busy themselves 
with concentrated fire. By the fourth day 



232 THE FLYING ACE 

the new gun-pits, or whatever it was that 
the Hun tried to smuggle into place un- 
noticed, have been demolished and is re- 
placed by a wide rash of shell-holes. 

Wonderful indeed is the record of war as 
preserved by prints in the archives of our 
photographic section. For example, we were 
shown last week a pair of striking snapshots 
taken above Martinpuich, before and after 
bombardment. The Before one pictured a 
neat little village in compact perspective of 
squares, rectangles, and triangles. The After- 
math pictured a tangled heap of sprawling 
chaos, as little like a village as is the usual 
popular novel like literature. 

Of all the Flying Corps photographs of 
war, perhaps the most striking is that taken 
before Ypres of the first Hun gas attack. 
A B.E 2 .C, well behind the German lines, 
caught sight of a strange snowball of a cloud 
rolling across open ground, in the wake of an 
east wind. It flew to investigate, and the 
pilot photographed the phenomenon from the 
rear. This reproduction of a tenuous mass 
blown along the discoloured earth will show 
coming generations how the Boche intro- 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 233 

duced to the black art of warfare its most 
devilish form of f rightfulness. 

I would send you a few aerial photographs, 
as you suggest, if the private possession of 
them were not strictly verboten. Possibly 
you will have an opportunity of seeing all you 
want later, for if the authorities concerned are 
wise they will form a public collection of a few 
thousand representative snapshots, to show 
the worlds of to-day, to-morrow, and the day 
after what the camera did in the great war. 
Such a permanent record would be of great 
value to the military historian; and on a 
rainy afternoon, when the more vapid of the 
revues were not offering matinees, they might 
even be of interest to the average Lon- 
doner. 

I can tell you little of the technical branch 
of this new science, which has influenced so 
largely the changing war of the past two 
years, and which will play an even greater 
part in the decisive war of the next two. 
All I know is that hundreds of photos are 
taken every day over enemy country, that 
ninety per cent of them are successful, and 
that the trained mechanics sometimes pro- 



234 THE FLYING ACE 

duce finished prints twenty minutes after we 
have given thena our plates. 

Moreover, I am not anxious to discuss the 
subject further, for it is 10 p.m., and at 5 
a.m., unless my good angel sends bad weather, 
I shall be starting for an offensive patrol over 
Mossy-Face. Also you don't deserve even 
this much, as I have received no correspond- 
ence, books, or pork-pies from you for over a 
week. In ten minutes' time I shall be em- 
ployed on the nightly slaughter of the spiders^ 
earwigs, and moths that plague my tent. 

Good night. 

France, September, 1916 



V. 

THE ARCHIBALD FAMILY. 

You remark on the familiarity with 

which I speak of Archie, and you ask for de- 
tailed information about his character and 
habits. Why should I not treat him with 
familiarity? If a man calls on you nearly 
every day you are entitled to use his Christian 
name. And if the intimacy be such that at 
each visit he tries to punch your head, he 
becomes more a brother than a friend. 

How, you continue, did a creature so stren- 
uous as the anti-aircraft gun come by the 
flippant name of Archie? Well, once upon a 
time the Boche A.-A. guns were very young 
and had all the impetuous inaccuracy inci- 
dent to youth. British airmen scarcely knew 
they were fired at until they saw the pretty, 
white puffs in the distance. 

One day a pilot noticed some far-away 
bursts, presumably meant for him. He was 
young enough not to remember the good old 

235 



236 THE FLYING ACE 

days (you would doubtless call them the bad 
old days) when the music-halls produced 
hearty, if vulgar, humour, and he murmured 
"Archibald, certainly not!" The name clung, 
and as Archibald the A.-A. gun will go down 
to posterity. You can take it or leave it; 
any way, I cannot think of a better explana- 
tion for the moment. 

Archie has since grown up and become 
sober, calculating, accurate, relentless, cun- 
ning, and deadly mathematical. John or 
Ernest would now fit him better, as being 
more serious, or Wilhelm, as being more 
frightful. For Archie is a true apostle of 
frightfulness. There is no greater adept at 
the gentle art of "putting the wind up" 
people. 

Few airmen get hardened to the villainous 
noise of a loud wouff! wouff! at 12,000 feet, 
especially when it is near enough to be fol- 
lowed by the shriek of shell-fragments. Noth- 
ing disconcerts a man more as he tries to 
spy out the land, take photographs, direct 
artillery fire, or take aim through a bomb- 
sight, than to hear this noise and perhaps be 
lifted a hundred feet or so when a shell bursts 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 237 

close underneath. And one is haunted by 
the knowledge that, unlike the indirect fire 
of the more precise guns, Archie keeps his 
own eyes on the target and can observe all 
swerves and dashes for safety. 

To anybody who has seen a machine 
broken up by a direct hit at some height 
between 8,000 and 15,000 feet, Archie be- 
comes a prince among the demons of destruc- 
tion. Direct hits are fortunately few, but 
hits by stray fragments are unfortunately 
many. Yet, though the damage on such 
occasions is regrettable, it is seldom over- 
whelming. Given a skilful' pilot and a well- 
rigged bus, miracles can happen, though a 
machine stands no technical chance of stag- 
gering home. In the air uncommon escapes 
are common enough. 

On several occasions, after a direct hit, a 
wounded British pilot has brought his craft 
to safety, with wings and fuselage weirdly 
ventilated and half the control wires help- 
less. Archie wounded a pilot from our aero- 
drome in the head and leg, and an opening 
the size of a duck's egg was ripped into the 
petrol tank facing him. The pressure went, 



238 THE FLYING ACE 

and so did the engine-power. The lines were 
too distant to be reached in a glide, so the 
machine planed down towards Hun territory. 
The pilot was growing weak from loss of 
blood, but it occurred to him that if he stuck 
his knee into the hole he might be able to 
pump up pressure. He tried this, and the 
engine came back to life 50 feet from the 
ground. At this height he flew, in a semi- 
conscious condition, twelve miles over enemy 
country and crossed the lines with his bus 
scarcely touched by the dozens of machine- 
guns trained on it. 

One of our pilots lost most of his rudder, 
but managed to get back by juggling with 
his elevator and ailerons. The fuselage of 
my own machine was once set on fire by a 
chunk of burning H.E. The flames died 
out under pressure from gloves and hands, 
just as they had touched the drums of am- 
munition and all but eaten through a lon- 
geron. 

Escapes from personal injuries have been 
quite as strange. A piece of high explosive 
hit a machine sideways, passed right through 
the observer's cockpit, and grazed two knee- 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 239 

caps belonging to a friend of mine. He was 
left with nothing worse than two cuts and 
mild shell-shock. 

Scottie, another observer (now a prisoner, 
poor chap), leaned forward to look at his 
map while on a reconnaissance. A dainty 
morsel from an Archie shell hurtled through 
the air and grazed the back of his neck. He 
finished the reconnaissance, made out his re- 
port, and got the scratch dressed at the hos- 
pital. Next day he resumed work; and he 
was delighted to find himself in the Roll of 
Honour, under the heading "Wounded." I 
once heard him explain to a new observer 
that when flying a close study of the map 
was a guarantee against losing one's way, 
one's head — and one's neck. 

The Archibald ' family tree has several 
branches. Whenever the founder of the 
family went on the burst he broke out in 
the form of white puffs, like those thrown 
from the funnel of a liner when it begins to 
slow down. The white bursts still seek us 
out, but the modern Boche A. -A. gunner 
specialises more in the black variety. The 
white bursts contain shrapnel, which is cast 



240 THE FLYING ACE 

outwards and upwards; the black ones con- 
tain high explosive, which spreads all around. 

H.E. has a lesser radius of solid f rightful- 
ness than shrapnel, but if it does hit a ma- 
chine the damage is greater. For vocal 
Rightfulness the black beat the white hol- 
low. If the Titans ever had an epidemic of 
whooping-cough, and a score of them cho- 
rused the symptoms in unison, I should imag- 
ine the noise was like the bursting of a black 
Archie shell. 

Then there is the green branch of the 
family. This is something of a problem. 
One theory is that the green bursts are for 
ranging purposes only, another that they 
contain a special brand of H.E., and a third 
declares them to be gas shells. All three 
suggestions may be partly true, for there is 
certainly more than one brand of green 
Archie. 

First cousin to Archie is the onion, other- 
wise the flaming rocket. It is fired in a 
long stream of what look like short rect- 
angles of compressed flame at machines that 
have been enticed down to a height of 4000 
to 6000 feet. It is most impressive as a 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 241 

firework display. There are also colourless 
phosphorous rockets that describe a wide 
parabola in their flight. 

Within the past month or two we have 
been entertained at rare intervals by the 
family ghost. This fascinating and mys- 
terious being appears very suddenly in the 
form of a pillar of white smoke, stretching 
to a height of several thousand feet. It is 
straight, and apparently rigid as far as the 
top, where it sprays round into a knob. 
Altogether, it suggests a giant piece of cel- 
ery. It does not seem to disperse; but if 
you pass on and look away for a quarter of 
an hour, you will find on your return that it 
has faded away as suddenly as it came, after 
the manner of ghosts. Whether the pillars 
are intended to distribute gas is uncertain, 
but it is a curious fact that on the few occa- 
sions when we have seen them they have 
appeared to windward of us. 

Like babies and lunatics, Archie has his 
good and bad days. If low clouds are about 
and he can only see through the gaps he is 
not very troublesome. Mist also helps to 
keep him quiet. He breaks out badly when 



242 THE FLYING ACE 

the sky is a cover of unbroken blue, though 
the sun sometimes dazzles him, so that he 
fires amok. From his point of view it is a 
perfect day when a film of cloud about 
20,000 feet above him screens the sky. The 
high clouds forms a perfect background for 
anything between it and the ground, and air- 
craft stand out boldly, like the figures on a 
Greek vase. On such a day we would will- 
ingly change places with the gunners below. 
For my part, Archie has given me a fellow- 
feeling for the birds of the air. I have at 
times tried light-heartedly to shoot part- 
ridges and even pigeons, but if ever again 
I fire at anything on the wing, sympathy 
will spoil my aim. 

France, October, 1916 



VI. 

BATTLES AND BULLETS. 

I am not sure which is the more 

disquieting, to be under fire in the air or on 
the ground. 

Although the airman is less likely to be 
hit than the infantryman, he has to deal 
with complications that could not arise on 
solid earth. Like the infantryman, a pilot 
may be killed outright by a questing bullet, 
and there's an end of it. But in the case 
of a wound he has a far worse time. If an 
infantryman be plugged he knows he has 
probably received "a Blighty one," and as 
he is taken to the dressing-station he dreams 
of spending next week-end in England. A 
wounded pilot dare think of nothing but to 
get back to safety with his machine, and pos- 
sibly an observer. 

He may lose blood and be attacked by a 
paralysing faintness. He must then make his 
unwilling body continue to carry out the 
commands of his unwilling brain, for if he 

243 



244 THE FLYING ACE 

gives way to unconsciousness the machine, 
freed from reasoned control, will perform 
circus tricks and twist itself into a spinning 
nose-dive. Even when he has brought the 
bus to friendly country he must keep clear- 
headed; otherwise he will be unable to exer- 
cise the judgment necessary for landing. 

Another unpleasant thought is that though 
he himself escape unhurt, an incendiary bul- 
let may set his petrol tank ablaze, or some 
stray shots may cut his most vital control 
wires. And a headlong dive under these 
conditions is rather too exciting, even for the 
most confirmed seeker after sensation. 

Yet with all these extra possibilities of 
what a bullet may mean, the chances of 
being plugged in the air are decidedly less 
than on the ground. While travelling at 
anything from 70 to 140 miles an hour it 
is decidedly more difficult to hit another 
object tearing along at a like speed and 
swerving in all directions, than from a 
machine-gun emplacement to rake a line of 
men advancing "over the top." Another 
point favourable to the airman is that he 
scarcely realises^the presence of bullets around 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME U5 

him, for the roar of his engine drowns that 
sinister hiss which makes a man automati- 
cally close his eyes and duck. 

Given a certain temperament and a cer- 
tain mood, an air fight is the greatest form 
of sport on earth. Every atom of person- 
ality, mental and physical, is conscripted into 
the task. The brain must be instinctive with 
insight into the enemy's moves, and with 
plans to check and outwit him. The eye 
must cover every direction and co-operate 
with the brain in perfect judgments of time 
and distance. Hands, fingers, and feet must 
be instantaneous in seizing an opportunity to 
swoop and fire, swerve and avoid, retire and 
return. 

In an isolated fight between two single 
machines the primary aim of each pilot is 
to attack by surprise at close quarters. If 
this be impossible, he plays for position and 
tries to get above his opponent. He opens 
fire first if he can, as this may disconcert 
the enemy, but he must be careful not to 
waste ammunition at long range. A machine 
with little ammunition is at a tremendous 
disadvantage against a machine with plenty. 



246 THE FLYING ACE 

If an isolated British aeroplane sees a 
formation of Germans crossing to our side 
it has no hesitation in sweeping forward to 
break up the party. You will remember 
our old friend Marmaduke, dear lady? Only 
last week he attacked ten German machines, 
chased them back to their own place in the 
air, and drove two down. 

Even from the purely selfish point of view 
much depends on the area. When an air- 
man destroys a Boche over German country 
he may have no witnesses, in which case his 
report is attended by an elusive shadow of 
polite doubt. But if the deed be done near 
the trenches, his success is seen by plenty 
of people only too willing to support his 
claim. Sometimes a pilot may even force a 
damaged Boche machine to land among the 
British. He then follows his captive down, 
receives the surrender, and wonders if he 
deserves the Military Cross or merely con- 
gratulations. 

The tactics of an air battle on a larger 
scale are much more complicated than those 
for single combats. A pilot must be pre- 
pared at every instant to change from the 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 247 

offensive to the defensive and back again, 
to take lightning decisions, and to extricate 
himself from one part of the fight and sweep 
away to another, if by so doing he can save 
a friend or destroy an enemy. 

To help you realise some of the experiences 
of an air battle, my very dear madam, let 
us suppose you have changed your sex and 
surroundings, and are one of us, flying in 
a bunch over the back of the German front, 
seeking whom we may devour. 

A moment ago the sky was clear of every- 
thing but those dainty cloud-banks to the 
east. Very suddenly a party of enemies ap- 
pear out of nowhere, and we rush to meet 
them. Like the rest of us, you concentrate 
your whole being on the part you must play, 
and tune yourself up to the strain attendant 
on the first shock of encounter. What hap- 
pens in the first few seconds often decides 
the fight. 

The opposing forces close up and perfect 
their order of battle. The usual German 
method, during the past few weeks, has been 
to fly very high and range the machines one 
above the other. If the higher craft are in 



248 THE FLYING ACE 

trouble they dive and join the others. If 
one of the lower ones be surrounded those 
above can swoop down to its help. Our 
own tactics vary according to circumstances. 

At the start it is a case of follow-my- 
leader. The flight-commander selects a Boche 
and dives straight at him. You follow until 
you are within range, then swerve away and 
around, so as to attack from the side. Then, 
with a clear field, you pour in a raking fire 
by short bursts — ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, ta- 
ta-ta-ta, aiming to hit the Boche pilot and 
allowing for deflection. From all directions 
you hear the rattle of other guns, muffled by 
the louder noise of the engine. 

A third British machine is under the 
Boche's tail, and the observer in it is firing 
upwards. The three of you draw nearer 
and nearer to your prey. The Hun puts 
his nose down to sweep away; but it is too 
late. His petrol tank bursts into flames, 
and the machine dives steeply, a streamer 
of flame running away behind it. The fire 
spreads to the fuselage and planes. After 
rushing earthwards for two or three thou- 
sand feet, the whole aeroplane crumbles up 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 249 

and you see the main portion falling like a 
stone. And you (who have shed the skin 
of sentiment and calm restraint and become 
for the duration of the fight a bold bad pilot 
with the lust of battle in your blood) are 
filled with joy. 

Meanwhile, your observer's gun has been 
grinding away behind you, showing that you 
in your turn are attacked. You twist the 
machine round. Almost instinctively your 
feet push the rudder-control just sufficiently 
to let you aim dead at the nearest enemy. 
You press the trigger. Two shots are fired, 
and — your gun jambs. 

You bank and turn sideways, so as to let 
your observer get in some shooting while 
you examine your gun. From the position 
of the check-lever you realise that there 
has been a missfire. Quickly but calmly — 
feverish haste might make a temporary 
stoppage chronic — you lean over and remedy 
the fault. Again you press the trigger, and 
never was sound more welcome than the 
ta-ta-ta-ta-ta which shows you are ready for 
all comers. 

Once more you turn to meet the attacking 



250 THE FLYING ACE 

Germans. As you do so your observer points 
to a black-crossed bird which is gliding down 
after he has crippled it. But three more are 
closing round you. Something sings loudly a 
yard away. You turn your head and see that 
a landing wire has been shot through; and 
you thank the gods that it was not a flying 
wire. 

The flight-commander and another com- 
panion have just arrived to help you. They 
dash at a Boche, and evidently some of their 
shots reach him, for he also separates him- 
self and glides down. The two other Huns, 
finding themselves outnumbered, retire. 

All this while the two rear machines have 
been having a bad time. They were sur- 
rounded by five enemies at the very be- 
ginning of the fight. One of the Boches 
has since disappeared, but the other four 
are very much there. 

You sweep round and go to the rescue, 
accompanied by the flight-commander and 
the remaining British machine. Just as you 
arrive old X's bus drops forward and down, 
spinning as it goes. It falls slowly at first, 
but seems to gather momentum; the spin 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 251 

becomes wilder and wilder, the drop faster 
and faster. 

"Poor old X," you think, "how damnable 
to lose him. Now the poor beggar won't 
get the leave he has been talking about for 
the last two months." Then your thoughts 
turn to Y, the observer in the lost machine. 
You know his fiancee, you remember he owes 
you 30 francs from last night's game of 
bridge. 

You burn to avenge poor X and Y, but all 
the Huns have dived and are now too low 
for pursuit. You recover your place in the 
formation and the fight ends as suddenly 
as it began. One German machine has been 
destroyed and two driven down, but — " one of 
ours has failed to return." 

When you return and land, you are not 
so contented as usual to be back. There will 
be two vacant places at dinner, and there 
is a nasty job to be done. You will have to 
write rather a painful letter to Y's fiancee. 

Madam, you are now at liberty to give up 
the temporary role of a bold, bad pilot and 
become once more your charming self. 

France, November, 1916 



VII. 

BACK IN BLIGHTY. 

You last heard of my continued 

existence, I believe, from a field post-card 
with but one of the printed lines uncrossed: 
"I have been admitted to hospital." When 
this was sent I had no more expectation of 
a return to Blighty than has a rich Bishop 
of not entering the Kingdom of Heaven. 
Nevertheless, here we are again, after a 
three days' tour along the Red Cross lines 
of communication. 

Again I have been admitted to hospital. 
This one is more sumptuous but less satis- 
fying than the casualty clearing station at 
Gezaincourt, whence the card was posted. 
There, in a small chateau converted into an 
R.A.M.C. half-way house, one was not over- 
anxious to be up and about, for that would 
have meant a further dose of war at close 
quarters. Here, in a huge military hospital 
at Westminster, one is very anxious to be 
up and about, for that would mean a long- 

252 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 253 

delayed taste of the joys of London. At 
Gezaincourt rumbling gun fire punctuated the 
countryside stillness; aeroplanes hummed past 
on their way to the lines, and engendered 
gratitude for a respite from encounters with 
Archie; from the ward window I could see 
the star-shells as they streaked up through 
the dim night. At Westminster rumbling 
buses punctuate the back-street stillness; 
taxis hum past on their way to the West 
End, and engender a longing for renewed 
acquaintance with the normal world and the 
normal devil; from the ward window I can 
see the towers of Parliament as they stretch 
up through the London greyness. For an 
Englishman just returned from a foreign 
battlefield to his own capital it should be an 
inspiring view, that of the Home of Gov- 
ernment, wherein the Snowdens, Outhwaites, 
Ponsonbys, and Sir John Simons talk their 
hardest for the winning of the war by one 
side or the other, I am not sure which. But 
somehow it isn't. 

I have mentioned the hospital's position, 
because it will help you on the day after to- 
morrow, if the herewith forecast is correct. 



254 THE FLYING ACE 

You will read this letter, hang me for my 
customary disturbing suddenness, and search 
a time-table. This will tell you that a train 
from your part of the country arrives in town 
at 11.45 a.m. (e), which bracketed letter 
means Saturdays excepted. By it you will 
travel on Tuesday morning. Then, in the 
afternoon, you will seek a taxi, but either 
the drivers will have as fares middle-aged 
contractors, good for a fat tip, or they will 
claim a lack of petrol, lady. You will there- 
fore fight for place in a bus, which must be 
left at the corner of Whitehall and Queen 
Victoria Street. Next you will walk towards 
the river, past Westminster Abbey and the 
Houses of Talk, and so to Chelsea Embank- 
ment. Turn off by the Tate Gallery, enter 
the large building on your right, and you 
will have arrived. Visiting hours are from 
two to four, but as the Sister is one of the 
best and my very kind friend, you will not 
be turned out until five. 

But I can hear you ask leading questions. 
No, I am not badly wounded nor seriously 
ill. Neither am I suffering from shell-shock, 
nor even from cold feet. A Blighty injury 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME Z55 

of the cushiest is the spring actuating this 
Jack-in-the-Box appearance. Have patience. 
To-day's inactivity has bred a pleasant bore- 
dom, which I shall work off by writing you a 
history of the reasons why I am back from 
the big war. They include a Hun aeroplane, 
a crash, a lobster, and two doctors. 

You will remember how, months ago, our 
machine landed on an abandoned trench, 
after being damaged in a scrap? A bullet 
through the petrol-pipe having put the car- 
burettor out of action, the engine ceased its 
revs., so that we glided several miles, crossed 
the then lines at a low height, and touched 
earth among the network of last June's lines. 
We pancaked on to the far edge of a trench, 
and the wheels slid backward into the cav- 
ity, causing the lower wings and fuselage to 
be crumpled and broken. 

My left knee, which has always been weak 
since a far-back accident, was jerked by 
contact with the parapet. Next day it 
seemed none the worse, so I did not take the 
accident seriously. During the weeks and 
months that followed the knee was painless, 
but it grew larger and larger for no noticea- 



256 THE FLYING ACE 

ble reason, like Alice in Wonderland and the 
daily cost of the war. 

Then an aggressive lobster, eaten in Amiens 
one fine evening, revenged itself by making 
necessary a visit to the casualty clearing sta- 
tion for attention to a mildly poisoned tummy. 
The doctor who examined me noticed the 
swollen knee, and looked grave. He pinched, 
punched, and pressed it, and finally said: 
"My dear boy, why the devil didn't you re- 
port this? It's aggravated synovitis, and, if 
you don't want permanent water-on-the-knee, 
you'll have to lie up for at least three weeks. 
I'll have you sent to the Base to-morrow." 

My ambition did not yet soar beyond a 
short rest at the Base. Meanwhile it was 
pleasant to lie between real sheets and to 
watch real English girls making beds, taking 
temperatures, and looking after the newly 
wounded with a blend of tenderness and 
masterful competence. Their worst job ap- 
peared to be fighting the Somme mud. The 
casualties from the trench region were in- 
variably caked with dirt until the nurses had 
bathed and cleaned them with comic tact 
and great success. 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 257 

It being the day of an advance, scores of 
cases were sent to Gezaincourt from the field 
dressing stations. Each time an ambulance 
car, loaded with broken and nerve-shattered 
men, stopped by the hospital entrance, a 
young donkey brayed joyously from a field 
facing the doorway, as if to shout "Never 
say die!" Most of the casualties echoed the 
sentiment, for they seemed full of beans and 
congratulated themselves and each other on 
their luck in getting Blighty ones. 

But it was otherwise with the cases of 
shell-shock. I can imagine no more wretched 
state of mind than that of a man whose 
nerves have just been unbalanced by close 
shaves from gun fire. There was in the same 
lysol-scented ward as myself a New Zealander 
in this condition. While he talked with a 
friend a shell had burst within a few yards 
of the pair, wounding him in the thigh and 
sweeping off the friend's head. He lost much 
blood and became a mental wreck. All day 
and all night he tossed about in his bed, 
miserably sleepless and acutely on edge, or 
lay in a vacant and despondent quiet. Noth- 
ing interested him, nothing comforted him — 



258 THE FLYING ACE 

not even a promise from the doctor of a long 
rest in England. 

There were also many victims of the pre- 
vailing epidemics of trench-fever and rabid 
influenza. The clearing station was thus 
hard put to it to make room for all new- 
comers by means of evacuation. For our 
batch this happened next evening. A long 
train drew up on the single-line railway near 
the hospital, the stretcher cases were borne 
to special Pullman cars, and the walking 
cases followed, each docketed in his button- 
hole by a card descriptive of wound or ail- 
ment. 

You can have no idea of the comfort of 
a modern R.A.M.C. train as used at the 
Front. During the first few months of war, 
when the small amount of available rolling 
stock was worth its weight in man-power, 
the general travel accommodation for the 
wounded was the French railway truck, with 
straw strewn over the floor. In these the 
suffering sick were jolted, jerked, and halted 
for hours at a time, while the scorching sun 
danced through the van's open sides and 
the mosquito-flies bit their damnedest. But 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 259 

nowadays one travels in luxury and sleeping- 
berths, with ever-ready nurses eager to wait 
upon every whim. 

A sling-armed Canadian was one of the 
party of four in our compartment. Great 
was his joy when a conjuring trick of coin- 
cidence revealed that the jolly sister who 
came to ask what we would like to drink 
proved to be not only a Canadian, but ac- 
tually from his own little township in Mani- 
toba. While they discussed mutual friends 
the rest of us felt highly disappointed that 
we also were not from the township. As 
evidence that they both were of the right 
stuff, neither of them platitudinised : "It's a 
small world, isn't it?" 

The smooth-running train sped northward 
from the Somme battlefield, and we betted 
on each man's chances of being sent to 
Blighty. Before settling down to sleep, we 
likewise had a sweepstake on the Base of 
destination, for not until arrival were we 
told whether it was Rouen, Boulogne, or 
Etaples. I drew Boulogne and won, as we 
discovered on being awoken at early dawn 
by a nurse, who arrived with tea, a cheery 



260 THE FLYING ACE 

"Morning, boys," and bread-and-butter thin 
as ever was poised between your slim fingers. 

The wounded and shell-shocked New Zea- 
lander had pegged out during the journey. 
May the gods rest his troubled spirit! 

From Boulogne station a fleet of ambu- 
lance cars distributed the train's freight of 
casualties among the various general hos- 
pitals. At three of the starry morning I 
found myself inside a large one-time hotel 
on the sea front, being introduced to a bed 
by a deft-handed nurse of unusual beauty. 

The Blighty hopes of our party were re- 
alised or disappointed at midday, when the 
surgeon-in-charge came to decide which of 
the new arrivals were to be forwarded across 
Channel, and which were to be patched up 
in France. The world stands still the mo- 
ment before the Ram Corps major, his ex- 
amination concluded, delivers the blessed 
verdict: "Get him off by this afternoon's 
boat, sister." Or an unwelcome reassurance: 
"We'll soon get you right here." 

For my part I had not the least expecta- 
tion of Blighty until the surgeon showed signs 
of prolonged dissatisfaction with the swollen 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 261 

knee. Like the doctor at Gezaincourt, he 
pinched, punched, and pressed it, asked for 
its history, and finally pronounced: "I'm 
afraid it'll have to be rested for about six 
weeks." Then, after a pause: "Sorry we 
haven't room to keep you here for so long. 
You'll be fixed up on the other side." Hast- 
ily I remarked that I should be sorry indeed 
to take up valuable space at a Base hospital. 
The major's departure from the ward was 
the signal for a demonstration by the Blighty 
squad. Pillows and congratulations were 
thrown about, war-dances were performed 
on game legs, the sister was bombarded with 
inquiries about the next boat. 

All places on the afternoon boat having 
been booked, we were obliged to wait until 
the morning. What a day! The last of a 
long period amid the myriad ennuies of ac- 
tive service, the herald of a long spell amid 
the pleasant things of England. Impatience 
for the morrow was kept bottled with diffi- 
culty; every now and then the cork flew 
out, resulting in a wild rag among those 
able to run, walk, or hop. When the 'Times' 
was delivered, it seemed quite a minor mat- 



262 THE FLYING ACE 

ter that the Gazette should notify me that 
I had been presented with another pip. 

After dinner some one remarked that "she" 
would soon come on duty, and there was an 
air of conscious expectancy among the vet- 
erans of the ward. "She," the V.A.D. girl 
who had received us when we were deposited 
at the hospital in the small hours of the 
morning, was — and is — an efficient nurse, a 
good comrade, a beautiful woman, and the 
friend of every casualty lucky enough to have 
been in her charge. For a wounded officer 
staled by the brutalities of trench life there 
could be no better mental tonic than the 
ministrations and charm of Our Lady of X 
Ward. I cannot guess the number and va- 
riety of proposals made to her by patients of 
a week's or a month's standing, but both 
must be large. She is also the possessor of 
this admirable and remarkable record. For 
two years she has been nursing — really nurs- 
ing — in France, and yet, though she belongs 
to a well-known family, her photograph has 
never appeared in the illustrated papers that 
boom war-work patriots. On this particular 
evening, in the intervals of handing round 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 263 

medicines and cheerfulness, our comrade the 
night nurse made coffee for us over a gas- 
burner, a grey-haired colonel and a baby one- 
star taking turns to stir the saucepan. 

The next change of scene is to the quays 
of Boulogne. Ambulance cars from the sev- 
eral hospitals lined up before a ship side- 
marked by giant Red Crosses. The stretcher 
casualties were carried up the gangway, down 
the stairs, and into the boat's wards below. 
The remainder were made comfortable on 
deck. Distribution of life-saving contrap- 
tions, business with medical cards, gleeful 
hoots from the funnel, chug-chug from the 
paddles, and hey for Blighty ! across a smooth 
lake of a sea. Yarns of attack and bombard- 
ment were interrupted by the pleasurable dis- 
covery that Dover's cliffs were still white. 

We seemed an unkempt crowd indeed by 
contrast with dwellers on this side of the 
Channel. The ragged raiment of men pipped 
during a Somme advance did not harmonise 
with plush first-class compartments of the 
Chatham and Dover railway. Every uni- 
form in our carriage, except mine and another, 
was muddied and bloodied, so that I felt al- 



264 THE FLYING ACE 

most ashamed of the comparative cleanliness 
allowed by life in an R.F.C. camp, miles be- 
hind the lines. The subaltern opposite, how- 
ever, was immaculate as the fashion-plate of 
a Sackville Street tailor. Yet, we thought, he 
must have seen some tough times, for he 
knew all about each phase of the Somme 
operations. Beaumont Hamel? He explained 
exactly how the Blankshires and Dashshires, 
behind a dense barrage, converged up the 
high ground fronting the stronghold. Stuff 
Redoubt? He gave us a complete account 
of its capture, loss, and recapture. But this 
seasoned warrior quietened after the visit of 
an official who listed us with particulars of 
wounds, units, and service. His service over- 
seas? Five months in the Claims Depart- 
ment at Amiens. Wound or sickness? Scabies. 

Charing Cross, gateway of the beloved city ! 
The solid old clock looked down benignly as 
if to say: "I am the first landmark of your 
own London to greet you. Pass along through 
that archway and greet the others." 

But we could not pass along. The medical 
watchdogs and mesdemoiselles the ambulance- 
drivers saw to that. We were detailed to 



LETTERS FROM THE SOMME 265 

cars and forwarded to the various destina- 
tions, some to the provinces by way of an- 
other station, some to suburban hospitals, 
some to London proper. I was one of the 
lucky last-named and soon found myself set- 
tled in Westminster. Here the injured knee 
was again pinched, punched, and pressed, 
after which the ward surgeon told me I 
should probably stay in bed for a month. 
For exercise I shall be permitted to walk 
along the passage each morning to the de- 
partment where they dispense massage and 
ionisation. 

Meanwhile, it is midday and flying weather. 
Over there a formation of A flight, Umpty 
Squadron, will perhaps be droning back from 
a hundred-mile reconnaissance. V., my mad 
friend and sane pilot and flight-commander, 
leads it; and in my place, alas! Charlie-the- 
good-guide is making notes from the ob- 
server's cockpit. The Tripehound and others 
of the jolly company man the rear buses, 
which number four or five, according to 
whether the wicked bandit Missing has kid- 
napped some member of the family. And 
here loaf I, uncertain whether I am glad or 



c» 



266 THE FLYING ACE 

sorry to be out of it. The devil of it is that, 
unlike most of my bed-neighbours, I feel 
enormously fit and am anxious to shake hands 
with life and London. Time hangs heav r 1 
long, so bring all you can in the way o< u- 
latest books, the latest scandals, and your 
latest enthusiasms among the modern poets. 
Above all, bring yourself. 

London, November, 1916 



THE COUNTEY LLFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK 



^D - 6 6. * 




^r<* 



V fife V* :*«S|: V 

j* fV .i._ /►**.. .-> .-4- 





* 6\ 







^ 







^o* :£M&* *b&' 







'^cv 






' • * * " A& ^r *° • » * A 




1 




± / *>Sr?7r*-.-' O 







Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. I 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: |j*y 2001 



PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 







at *^s • ©IIS * <p v. *yj 












,o v 






A* 



*, 



OOBBSBROS. ," Jj? ^ °oW2$W* 4S 

LIBRARY BINOINO 



,0< 






